THE 

LIFE   AND    DEATH    OF    RICHARD 
YEA-AND-NAY 


BOOKS  BY  MAURICE  HEWLETT 

Published  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

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THE    LIFE   AND    DEATH 


OF 


RICHARD  YEA- AND- NAY 


BY 

MAURICE   HEWLETT 

AUTHOR    OF    **THE    FOREST    LOVERS,"     ''LITTLE    NOVELS 
OF    ITALY,"    ETC. 


Si  che  a  bene  sperar  mi  era  cagionc 
Di  quella  fera  alia  gaietta  pelle. 

Inf.  i.  41. 


Ni^ti!  fork  / 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1909 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1900, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  October,  1900.     Reprinted  November, 
December,  twice,  1900;  January,  February,  twice,  1901  ;  July,  igo^^ 


March,  1906;  May,  1907 


E0 

HIS  FRIEND 

EDMUND   GOSSE 

(always  benevolent  to  his  invention) 

this  chronicle  of 

anjou  and  a  noble  lady 

is  dedicated 

BY 
M.    H. 


241423 


CONTENTS 

BOOK   I  — THE   BOOK  OF  YEA 
EXORDIUM 

PAGE 

The  Abbot  Milo  urbi  et  orbij  concerning  the  Nature  of 

the  Leopard 3 

CHAPTER  I 
Of  Count  Richard,  and  the  Fires  by  Night     .        .        .5 

CHAPTER   II 
How  the  Fair  Jehane  bestowed  herself  .        •        •        .18 

CHAPTER   III 
In  what  Harbour  they  found  the  Old  Lion      .        .        .29 

CHAPTER   IV 

How  Jehane  stroked  what  Alois  had  made  Fierce   .         .41 

CHAPTER  V 

How  Bertran  de  Born  and  Count  Richard  strove  in  a 

Tenzon 56 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VI 


PAGii 


Fruits  of  the  Tenzon :  the  Back  of  Saint-Pol,  and  the 

Front  of  Montferrat 69 

CHAPTER  Vn 
Of  the  Crackling  of  Thorns  under  Pots  ....       84 

CHAPTER  VHI 
How  they  held  Richard  off  from  his  Father's  Throat       .       93 

CHAPTER   IX 
Wild  Work  in  the  Church  of  Gisors        .        .        .        ,102 

CHAPTER  X 
Night-work  by  the  Dark  Tower      .         ,        ,        ,        .111 

CHAPTER  XI 
Of  Prophecy;  and  Jehane  in  the  Perilous  Bed        .         .123 

CHAPTER  XII 
How  they  bayed  the  Old  Lion 134 

CHAPTER  XIII 
How  they  met  at  Fontevrault 145 

CHAPTER  XIV 

Of  what  King  Richard  said  to  the  Bowing  Rood ;  and 

what  Jehane  to  King  Richard  .        .        .        .156 


CONTENTS  ix 

CHAPTER  XV 

PAGB 

Last  7>«2<7«  of  Bertran  de  Born i68 

CHAPTER  XVI 

Conversation  in  England  of  Jehane  the  Fair   .        •        .179 

CHAPTER  XVH 
Frozen  Heart  and  Red  Heart :  Cahors  .        •        .        •     ^93 

BOOK   II— THE   BOOK   OF   NAY 

CHAPTER  I 
The  Chapter  called  Mate-Grifon 209 

CHAPTER  II 
Of  what  Jehane  looked  for,  and  what  Bereng^re  had        .     220 

CHAPTER  III 
Who  Fought  at  Acre "*      .     235 

CHAPTER   IV 

Concerning  the  Tower  of  FHes,  Saint-Pol,  and  the  Mar- 
quess of  Montferrat         .        .        .        .        .        .     248 

CHAPTER  V 

The  Chapter  of  Forbidding:   how  De  Gurdun  looked, 

and  King  Richard  hid  his  Face       .         .         .         .262 


X  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VI 


PAGE 


The  Chapter  called  Clytemnestra 282 

CHAPTER  Vn 

The  Chapter  of  the  Sacrifice  on  Lebanon;  also  called 

Cassandra 293 

CHAPTER  VIII 
Of  the  Going-up  and  Going-down  of  the  Marquess  .     302 

CHAPTER  IX 

How  King  Richard  reaped  what  Jehane  had  sowed,  and 

the  Soldan  was  Gleaner 311 

CHAPTER  X 
The  Chapter  called  Bonds 327 

CHAPTER  XI 
The  Chapter  called  A  Latere 338 

CHAPTER  XII 
The  Chapter  of  Strife  in  the  Dark 350 

CHAPTER  XIII 
Of  the  Love  of  Women 362 

CHAPTER  XIV 
How  the  Leopard  was  loosed         .         .         .        .         .    369 


CONTENTS  xi 

CHAPTER  XV 


PAGE 


CEconomic  Reflections  of  the  Old  Man  of  Musse    .        .380 

CHAPTER  XVI 
The  Chapter  called  Chaluz 386 

CHAPTER  XVII 
The  Keening 396 

Epilogue  of  the  Abbot  Milo 408 


BOOK   I 
THE   BOOK  OF  YEA 


EXORDIUM 

THE  ABBOT  MILO  URBI    ET    ORBI,    CONCERNING  THE 
NATURE  OF  THE  LEOPARD 

I  LIKE  this  good  man^s  account  of  leopards,  and 
find  it  more  pertinent  to  my  matter  than  you 
might  think.  Milo  was  a  Carthusian  monk,  abbot 
of  the  cloister  of  Saint  Mary -of- the -Pine  by 
Poictiers;  it  was  his  distinction  to  be  the  life- 
long friend  of  a  man  whose  friendships  were  few: 
certainly  it  may  be  said  of  him  that  he  knew 
as  much  of  leopards  as  any  one  of  his  time 
and  nation,  and  that  his  knowledge  was  better 
grounded. 

*Your  leopard,'  he  writes,  *is  alleged  in  the 
books  to  be  offspring  of  the  Lioness  and  the 
Pard ;  and  his  name,  if  the  Realists  have  any  truth 
on  their  side,  establishes  the  fact  But  I  think  he 
should  be  called  Leolupe,  which  is  to  say,  got  by 
lion  out  of  bitch-wolf,  since  two  essences  burn  in 
him  as  well  as  two  sorts.  This  is  the  nature  of 
the  leopard:  it  is  a  spotted  beast,  having  two 
souls,  a  bright  soul  and  a  dark  soul.  It  is  black 
and  golden,  slim  and  strong,  cat  and  dog.  Hunger 
drives  a  dog  to  hunt,  so  the  leopard ;  passion  the 
cat,  so  the  leopard.  A  cat  is  sufficient  unto  him- 
self, and  a  leopard  is  so;  but  a  dog  hangs  on  a 
man's  nod,  and  a  leopard  can  so  be  beguiled.  A 
leopard  is  sleek  as  a  cat  and  pleased  by  stroking ; 

3 


'4i;./f  ]^ICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

like  a  cat  he  will  scratch  his  friend  on  occasion. 
Yet  again,  he  has  a  dog's  intrepidity,  knows  no 
fear,  is  single-purposed,  not  to  be  called  off, 
longanimous.  But  the  cat  in  him  makes  him 
wary,  tempts  him  to  treacherous  dealing,  keeps 
him  apart  from  counsels,  advises  him  to  keep  his 
own.  So  the  leopard  is  a  lonely  beast'  This  is 
interesting,  and  may  be  true.  But  mark  him  as 
he  goes  on. 

'  I  knew  the  man,  my  dear  master  and  a  great 
king,  who  brought  the  leopards  into  the  shield  of 
England,  more  proper  to  do  it  than  his  father, 
being  more  the  thing  he  signified.  Of  him,  there- 
fore, torn  by  two  natures,  cast  in  two  moulds, 
sport  of  two  fates ;  the  hymned  and  reviled,  the 
loved  and  loathed,  spendthrift  and  a  miser,  king 
and  a  beggar,  the  bond  and  the  free,  god  and 
man  ;  of  King  Richard  Yea-and-Nay,  so  made,  so 
called,  and  by  that  unmade,  I  thus  prepare  my 
account' 

So  far  the  abbot  with  much  learning  and  no 
little  verbosity  casts  his  net  He  has  the  weak- 
ness of  his  age,  you  observe,  and  must  begin  at 
the  beginning ;  but  this  is  not  our  custom.  Some- 
thing of  Time  is  behind  us ;  we  are  conscious  of 
a  world  replete,  and  may  assume  that  we  have 
digested  part  of  it  Milo,  indeed,  like  all  candid 
chroniclers,  has  his  value.  He  is  excellent  upon 
himself,  a  good  relish  with  your  meal.  However, 
as  we  are  concerned  with  King  Richard,  you  shall 
dip  into  his  bag  for  refreshment,  but  must  leave 
the  victualling  to  me. 


CHAPTER   I 

OF  COUNT  RICHARD,  AND  THE  FIRES  BY  NIGHT 

I  CHOOSE  to  record  how  Richard  Count  of 
Poictou  rode  all  through  one  smouldering  night 
to  see  Jehane  Saint-Pol  a  last  time.  It  had  so 
been  named  by  the  lady;  but  he  rode  in  his  hot- 
test mood  of  Nay  to  that,  yet  careless  of  first  or 
last  so  he  could  see  her  again.  Nominally  to 
remit  his  master's  sins,  though  actually  (as  he 
thought)  to  pay  for  his  own,  the  Abbot  Milo  bore 
him  company,  if  company  you  can  call  it  which 
left  the  good  man,  in  pitchy  dark,  some  hundred 
yards  behind.  The  way,  which  was  long,  led  over 
Saint  Andrew's  Plain,  the  bleakest  stretch  of  the 
Norman  march ;  the  pace,  being  Richard's,  was 
furious,  a  pounding  gallop;  the  prize,  Richard's 
again,  showed  fitfully  and  afar,  a  twinkling  point 
of  light.  Count  Richard  knew  it  for  Jehane's 
torch,  and  saw  no  other  spark ;  but  Milo,  faintly 
curious  on  the  lady's  account,  was  more  concerned 
with  the  throbbing  glow  which  now  and  again 
shuddered  in  the  northern  sky.  Nature  had  no 
lamps  that  night,  and  made  no  sign  by  cry  of 
night-bird  or  rustle  of  scared  beast :  there  was  no 
wind,  no  rain,  no  dew ;  she  offered  nothing  but 
heat,  dark,  and  dense  oppression.  Topping  the 
ridge  of  sand,  where  was  the  Fosse  des  Noyees, 


6  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

place  of  shameful  death,  the  solitary  torch 
showed  a  steady  beam ;  and  there  also,  ahead, 
could  be  seen  on  the  northern  horizon  that  rim 
of  throbbing  light. 

*  God  pity  the  poor  ! '  said  Count  Richard,  and 
scourged  forward. 

'  God  pity  me  ! '  said  gasping  Milo ;  *  I  believe 
my  stomach  is  in  my  head.'  So  at  last  they 
crossed  the  pebbly  ford  and  found  the  pines,  then 
cantered  up  the  path  of  light  which  streamed 
from  the  Dark  Tower.  As  core  of  this  they  saw 
the  lady  stand  with  a  torch  above  her  head ; 
when  they  drew  rein  she  did  not  move.  Her 
face,  moon-shaped,  was  as  pale  as  a  moon;  her 
loose  hair,  catching  light,  framed  it  with  gold. 
She  was  all  white  against  the  dark,  seemed  to 
loom  in  it  taller  than  she  was  or  could  have  been. 
She  was  Jehane  Saint-Pol,  Jehane  '  of  the  Fair 
Girdle,'  so  called  by  her  lovers  and  friends,  to 
whom  for  a  matter  of  two  years  this  hot-coloured, 
tallest,  and  coldest  of  the  Angevins  had  been 
light  of  the  world. 

The  check  upon  their  greeting  was  the  most 
curious  part  of  a  curious  business,  that  one 
should  have  travelled  and  the  other  watched  so 
long,  and  neither  urge  the  end  of  desire.  The 
Count  sat  still  upon  his  horse,  so  for  duty's  sake 
did*  the  aching  abbot ;  the  girl  stood  still  in  the 
entry-way,  holding  up  her  dripping  torch.  Then, 
*  Child,  child,'  cried  the  Count,  '  how  is  it  with 
thee.'^ '     His  voice  trembled,  and  so  did  he. 

She  looked  at  him,  slow  to  answer,  though  the 
hand  upon  her  bosom  swayed  up  and  down. 

*  Do  you  see  the  fires  ? '  she  said.     *  They  have 


CH.I  THE   FIRES   BY  NIGHT  7 

been  there  six  nights.'  He  was  watching  them 
then  through  the  pine-woods,  how  they  shot  into 
the  sky  great  ribbons  of  Hght,  flickered,  fainted 
out,  again  glowed  steadily  as  if  gathering  volume, 
again  leaped,  again  died,  ebbing  and  flowing  like 
a  tide  of  fire. 

'  The  King  will  be  at  Louviers,'  said  Richard. 
He  gave  a  short  laugh.  '  Well,  he  shall  light  us 
to  bed.  Heart  of  a  man,  I  am  sick  of  all  this. 
Let  me  in.' 

She  stood  aside,  and  he  rode  boldly  into  the 
tower,  stooping  as  he  passed  her  to  touch  her 
cheek.  She  looked  up  quickly,  then  let  in  the 
abbot,  who,  with  much  ceremony,  came  bowing, 
his  horse  led  by  the  bridle.  She  shut  the  door 
behind  them  and  drove  home  the  great  bolts. 
Servants  came  tumbling  out  to  take  the  horses 
and  do  their  duty ;  Count  Eustace,  a  brother  of 
Jehane's,  got  up  from  the  hearth,  where  he  had 
been  asleep  on  a  bearskin,  rubbed  his  eyes,  gulped 
a  yawn,  knelt,  and  was  kissed  by  Richard.  Jehane 
stood  apart,  mistress  of  herself  as  it  seemed,  but 
conscious,  perhaps,  that  she  was  being  watched. 
So  she  was.  In  the  bustle  of  salutation  the 
Abbot  Milo  found  eyes  to  see  what  manner  of 
sulky,  beautiful  girl  this  was. 

He  watched  shrewdly,  and  has  described  her 
for  us  with  the  meticulous  particularity  of  his 
time  and  temper.  He  runs  over  her  parts  like 
a  virtuoso.  The  iris  of  her  eyes,  for  instance,  was 
wet  grey,  but  ringed  with  black  and  shot  with 
yellow,  giving  so  the  effect  of  hot  green ;  her 
mouth  was  of  an  extraordinary  dark  red  colour, 
very   firm    in    texture,   close-grained,   'like    the 


8  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  BK.  1 

darker  sort  of  strawberries,'  says  he.  The  upper 
lip  had  the  sulky  curve ;  she  looked  discontented, 
and  had  reason  to  be,  under  such  a  scrutiny  of 
the  microscope.  Her  hair  was  colour  of  raw  silk, 
eyebrows  set  rather  high,  face  a  thinnish  oval, 
complexion  like  a  pink  rose's,  neck  thinnish 
again,  feet,  hands,  long  and  nervous,  *  good  work- 
ing members,'  etc.  etc.  None  of  this  helps  very 
much  ;  too  detailed.  But  he  noticed  how  tall  she 
was  and  how  slim,  save  for  a  very  beautiful 
bosom,  too  full  for  Dian's  (he  tells  us),  whom  else 
she  resembled ;  how  she  was  straight  as  a  birch- 
tree  ;  how  in  walking  it  seemed  as  if  her  skirts 
clung  about  her  knees.  There  was  an  air  of 
mingled  surprise  and  defiance  about  her;  she 
was  a  silent  girl.  *  Fronted  like  Juno,'  he  appears 
to  cry,  '  shaped  like  Hebe,  and  like  Demeter  in 
stature;  sullen  with  most,  but  with  one  most 
sweetly  apt,  she  looked  watchful  but  was  really 
timid,  looked  cold  but  was  secretly  afire.  I  knew 
soon  enough  how  her  case  stood,  how  hope  and 
doubt  strove  in  her  and  choked  her  to  silence.  I 
guessed  how  within  those  reticent  members  swift 
love  ran  like  wine;  but  because  of  this  proud, 
brave  mask  of  hers  I  was  slow  to  understand  her 
worth.  God  help  me,  I  thought  her  a  thing  of 
snow ! ' 

He  records  her  dress  at  this  time,  remarkable 
if  becoming.  It  was  all  white,  and  cut  wedge- 
shaped  in  front,  very  deep ;  but  an  undervest  of 
crimson  crossed  the  V  in  the  midst  and  saved  her 
modesty,  and  his.  Her  hair,  which  was  long,  was 
plaited  in  two  plaits  with  seed-pearls,  brought 
round  her  neck  like  a  scarf  and  the  two  ends 


CH.  I  THE   FIRES  BY  NIGHT  9 

joined  between  her  breasts,  thus  defining  a  great 
beauty  of  hers  and  making  a  gold  collar  to  her 
gown.  Round  her  smooth  throat  was  a  little 
chain  with  a  red  jewel;  on  her  head  another 
jewel  (a  carbuncle)  set  in  a  flower,  with  three 
heron's  plumes  falling  back  from  it.  She  had  a 
broad  belt  of  gold  and  sapphire  stones,  and  slip- 
pers of  vair.  *  Oh,  a  fine  straight  maid,'  says 
Milo  in  conclusion,  'golden  and  delicate,  with 
strangely  shaded  eyes.  They  knew  her  as  Jehane 
of  the  Fair  Girdle.' 

The  brother.  Count  Eustace  as  they  called  him 
(to  distinguish  him  from  an  elder  brother,  Eudo 
Count  of  Saint-Pol),  was  a  blunt  copy  of  his  sister, 
redder  than  she  was,  lighter  in  the  hair,  much 
lighter  in  the  eyes.  He  seemed  an  affectionate 
youth,  and  clung  to  the  great  Count  Richard  like 
ivy  to  a^tree.  Richard  gave  him  the  sort  of 
scornful  affection  one  has  for  a  little  dog,  between 
patting  and  slapping ;  but  clearly  wanted  to  be  rid 
of  him.  No  reference  was  made  to  the  journey, 
much  was  taken  for  granted;  Eustace  talked  of 
his  hawks,  Richard  ate  and  drank,  Jehane  sat  up 
stiffly,  looking  into  the  fire;  Milo  watched  her 
between  his  mouthfuls.  The  moment  supper  was 
done,  up  jumps  Richard  and  claps  hands  on  the 
two  shoulders  of  young  Eustace.  '  To  bed,  to  bed, 
my  falconer !  It  grows  late,'  cries  he.  Eustace 
pushed  his  chair  back,  rose,  kissed  the  Count's 
hand  and  his  sister's  forehead,  saluted  Milo,  and 
went  out  humming  a  tune,  Milo  withdrew,  the 
servants  bowed  themselves  away.  Richard  stood 
up,  a  loose-limbed  young  giant,  and  narrowed  his 
eyes. 


lo  :-^c    RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

*  Nest  thee,  nest  thee,  my  bird,'  he  said  low; 
and  Jehane's  lips  parted.  Slowly  she  left  her  stool 
by  the  fire,  but  quickened  as  she  went;  and  at 
last  ran  tumbling  into  his  arms. 

His  right  hand  embraced  her,  his  left  at  her 
chin  held  her  face  at  discretion.  Like  a  woman, 
she  reproached  him  for  what  she  dearly  loved. 

'  Lord,  lord,  how  shall  I  serve  the  cup  and 
platter  if  you  hold  me  so  fast  ? ' 

'  Thou  art  my  cup,  thou  art  my  supper.' 

'  Thin  fare,  poor  soul,'  she  said ;  but  was  glad 
of  his  foolishness. 

Later,  they  sat  by  the  hearth,  Jehane  on  Rich- 
ard's knee,  but  doubtfully  his,  being  troubled  by 
many  things.  He  had  no  retrospects  nor  after- 
thoughts; he  tried  to  coax  her  into  pliancy.  It 
was  the  fires  in  the  north  that  distressed  her. 
Richard  made  light  of  them. 

'  Dear,'  he  said,  '  the  King  my  father  is  come 
up  with  a  host  to  drive  the  Count  his  son  to  bed. 
Now  the  Count  his  son  is  master  of  a  good  bed, 
to  which  he  will  presently  go ;  but  it  is  not  the 
bed  of  the  King  his  father.  That,  as  you  know, 
is  of  French  make,  neither  good  Norman,  nor 
good  Angevin,  nor  seethed  in  the  English  mists. 
By  Saint  Maclou  and  the  astonishing  works  he 
did,  I  should  be  bad  Norman,  and  worse  Ange- 
vin, and  less  English  than  I  am,  if  I  loved  the 
French.' 

He  tried  to  draw  her  in ;  but  she,  rather,  strained 
away  from  him,  elbowed  her  knee,  and  rested  her 
chin  upon  her  hand.  She  looked  gravely  down 
to  the  whitening  logs,  where  the  ashes  were  gain- 
ing on  the  red. 


CH.I  THE  FIRES  BY  NIGHT  ii 

*My  lord  loves  not  the  French/  she  said,  *but 
he  loves  honour.  He  is  the  King's  son,  loving 
his  father/ 

'  By  my  soul,  I  do  not,*  he  assured  her,  with 
perfect  truth,  then  he  caught  her  round  the  waist 
and  turned  her  bodily  to  face  him.  After  he  had 
kissed  her  well  he  began  to  speak  more  seri- 
ously. 

*  Jehane,'  he  said,  *  I  have  thought  all  this  stifling 
night  upon  the  heath,  Homing  to  her  I  am  seek- 
ing my  best.  My  best  ?  You  are  all  I  have  in 
the  world.  If  honour  is  in  my  hand,  do  I  not 
owe  it  to  you  ?  Or  shall  a  man  use  women  like 
dogs,  to  play  with  them  in  idle  moods,  toss  them 
bones  under  the  table,  afterwards  kick  them  out 
of  doors  ?  Child,  you  know  me  better.  What !  * 
he  cried  out,  with  his  head  very  high,  *  Shall  a 
man  not  choose  his  own  wife  ? ' 

*  No,'  said  Jehane,  ready  for  him ;  *  no,  Richard, 
unless  the  people  shall  choose  their  own  king.' 

'  God  chooses  the  king,'  says  Richard,  *  or  so 
we  choose  to  believe.' 

*  Then  God  must  appoint  the  wife,'  Jehane  said, 
and  tried  to  get  free.  But  this  could  not  be  al- 
lowed, as  she  knew. 

She  was  gentle  with  him,  reasoning.  '  The  King 
your  father  is  an  old  man,  Richard.  Old  men 
love  their  way.' 

*  God  knows,  he  is  old,  and  passionate,  and  in- 
different wicked,'  said  Richard,  and  kissed  Jehane. 
*  Look,  my  girl,  there  were  four  of  us :  Henry, 
and  me,  and  Geoffrey,  and  John,  whom  he  sought 
to  drive  in  team  by  a  sop  to-day  and  a  stick  to- 
morrow.    A  good  way,  done  by  a  judging  hand. 


0 


12  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  1 

What  then  ?  I  will  tell  you  how  the  team  served 
the  teamster.  Henry  gave  sop  for  sop,  and  it 
was  found  well.  Might  he  not  give  stick  for 
stick  ?  He  thought  so :  God  rest  him,  he  is  dead 
of  that.  There  was  much  simplicity  in  Henry. 
I  got  no  sop  at  all.  Why  should  I  have  stick 
then }  I  saw  no  reason ;  but  I  took  what  came. 
If  I  cried  out,  it  is  a  more  harmless  vent  than 
many.  Let  me  alone.  Geoffrey,  I  think,  was  a 
villain.  God  help  him  if  He  can  :  he  is  dead  too. 
He  took  sop  and  gave  stick:  ungentle  in  Geoffrey, 
but  he  paid  for  it.  He  was  a  cross-bred  dog  with 
much-  of  the  devil  in  him ;  he  bit  himself  and  died 
barking.  Last,  there  is  John.  I  desire  to  speak 
reasonably  of  John ;  but  he  is  too  snug,  he  gets 
all  sop.  This  is  not  fair.  He  should  have  some 
stick,  that  we  may  judge  what  mettle  he  has. 
There,  my  Jehane,  you  have  the  four  of  us,  a  fret- 
ful team ;  whereof  one  has  rushed  his  hills  and 
broken  his  heart ;  and  one,  kicking  his  yoke- 
fellows, squealing,  playing  the  jade,  has  broken 
his  back;  and  one,  poor  Richard,  does  collar- 
work and  gets  whip;  and  one,  young  Master 
John,  eases  his  neck  and  is  cajoled  with,  "So 
then,  so  then,  boy  !  "  Then  comes  pretty  Jehane 
to  the  ear  of  the  collar-horse,  whispering,  "  Good 
Richard,  get  thee  to  stall,  but  not  here.  Stable 
thee  snug  wdth  the  King  of  France  his  sister." 
Hey ! '  laughed  Richard,  '  what  a  word  for  a 
chosen  bride  ! '  He  pinched  her  cheek  and  looked 
gaily  at  her,  triumphant  in  his  own  eloquence. 
He  was  most  dangerous  when  that  devil  was 
awake,  so  she  dared  not  look  at  him  back. 
Eagerly  and  low  she  replied. 


^ 


CH.  I  THE   FIRES  BY  NIGHT  13 

*  Yes,  Richard,  yes,  yes,  my  king !  The  king 
must  have  the  king's  sister,  and  Jehane  go  back 
to  the  byre.  Eagles  do  not  mate  with  buzzards.' 
Hereupon  he  snatched  her  up  altogether  and  hid 
her  face  in  his  breast. 

'  Never,  never,  never  ! '  he  swore  to  the  rafters. 
*As  God  lives  and  reigns,  so  live  thou  and  so 
reign,  queen  of  me,  my  Picardy  rose.' 

She  tried  no  more  that  night,  fearing  that  his 
love  so  keen-edged  might  make  his  will  ride 
rough.  The  watch-fires  at  Louviers  trembled 
and  streamed  up  in  the  north.  There  was  no 
need  for  candles  in  the  Dark  Tower. 

They  rose  up  early  to  a  fair  dawn.  The  cloud- 
wrack  was  blown  off,  leaving  the  sky  a  lake  of 
burnt  yellow,  pure,  sweet,  and  cool.  Thus  the 
world  entered  upon  the  summer  of  Saint  Luke,  to 
a  new-risen  sun,  to  thin  mists  stealing  off  the 
moor,  to  wet  flowers  hearted  anew,  to  blue  air, 
and  hope  left  for  those  who  would  go  gleaning. 
While  Eustace  Saint-Pol  was  snoring  abed  and 
the  Abbot  Milo  at  his  Sursum  Corda,  Richard 
had  Jehane  by  the  hand.  '  Come  forth,  my  love ; 
we  have  the  broad  day  before  us  and  an  empty 
kingdom  to  roam  in.  Come,  my  red  rose,  let  me 
set  you  among  the  flowers.'  What  could  she  do 
but  harbour  up  her  thoughts  ? 

He  took  her  afield,  where  flowers  made  the 
earth  still  a  singing-place,  and  gathered  of  these 
to  deck  her  bosom  and  hair.  Of  the  harebells  he 
made  knots,  the  ground-colour  of  her  eyes ;  but 
autumn  loves  the  yellow,  so  she  was  stuck  with 
gold  like  a  princess.  She  sat  enthroned  by  his 
command,  this  young  girl  in  a  high  place,  with 


14  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

downcast  eyes  and  a  face  all  fire-colour,  while  he 
worshipped  her  to  his  fancy.  I  believe  he  had  no 
after-thought ;  but  she  saw  the  dun  smoke  of  the 
fires  at  Louviers,  and  knew  they  would  make 
the  night  shudder  again.  Yet  her  sweetness, 
patience,  staid  courtesy,  humility,  never  failed 
her ;  out  of  the  deep  wells  of  her  soul  she  drew 
them  forth  in  a  stream.  Richard  adored. 
*  Queen  Jehane,  Queen  Jehane ! '  he  cried  out, 
with  his  arms  straightly  round  her  —  *  Was  ever 
man  in  the  world  blest  so  high  since  God  said, 
"Behold  thy  mother".?  And  so  art  thou 
mother  to  me,  O  bride.  Bride  and  queen  as 
thou  shalt  be.' 

This  was  great  invention.  She  put  her  hand 
upon  his  head.  '  My  Richard,  my  Richard  Yea- 
and-Nay,'  she  said,  as  if  pitying  his  wild  heart. 
The  nickname  jarred. 

*  Never  call  me  that,'  he  told  her.  *  Leave  that 
to  Bertran  de  Born,  a  fool's  word  to  the  fool  who 
made  it.' 

'  If  I  could,  if  I  could ! '  thought  Jehane,  and 
sighed.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  also,  as 
she  remembered  what  generosity  in  him  must 
be  frozen  up,  and  what  glory  of  her  own.  But 
she  did  not  falter  in  what  she  had  to  do,  while 
he,  too  exalted  to  be  pitied,  began  to  sing  a 
Southern  song  — 

Ar  entrada  del  tems  clair,  eya  ! 

When  their  hair  commingled  in  their  love, 
when  they  were  close  together,  there  was  little 
distinguishing  between  them;  he  was  more  her 
pair  than  Eustace  her  blood-brother,  in  stature  and 


CH.  I  THE   FIRES  BY  NIGHT  15 

shape,  in  hue  and  tincture  of  gold.  Jehane  you 
know,  but  not  Richard.  Of  him,  son  of  a  king, 
heir  of  a  king,  if  you  wish  some  bodily  sign,  I  will 
say  shortly  that  he  was  a  very  tall  young  man, 
high-coloured  and  calm  in  the  face,  straight-nosed, 
blue-eyed,  spare  of  flesh,  lithe,  swift  in  movement. 
He  was  at  once  bold  and  sleek,  eager  and  cold 
as  ice  —  an  odd  combination,  but  not  more  odd 
than  the  blend  of  Norman  dog  and  Angevin  cat 
which  had  made  him  so.  Furtive  he  was  not,  yet 
seeming  to  crouch  for  a  spring;  not  savage,  yet 
primed  for  savagery;  not  cruel,  yet  quick  on 
the  affront,  and  on  the  watch  for  it.  He  was 
•neither  a  rogue  nor  a  madman ;  and  yet  he  was  as 
cunning  as  the  one  and  as  heedless  as  the  other, 
if  that  is  a  possible  thing.  He  was  arrogant,  but 
his  smile  veiled  the  fault;  you  saw  it  best  in  a 
sleepy  look  he  had.  His  blemishes  were  many, 
his  weaknesses  two.  He  trusted  to  his  own  force 
too  much,  and  despised  everybody  else  in  the 
world.  Not  that  he  thought  them  knaves;  he 
was  certain  they  were  fools.  And  so  most  of 
them  were,  no  doubt,  but  not  all.  The  first  flush 
of  him  moved  your  admiration:  great  height, 
great  colour,  the  red  and  the  yellow;  his  beard 
which  ran  jutting  to  a  point  and  gave  his  jaw  the 
clubbed  look  of  a  big  cat's ;  his  shut  mouth,  and 
cold  considering  eyes ;  the  eager  set  of  his  head, 
his  soft,  padding  motions — a  leopard,  a  hunting 
leopard,  quick  to  strike,  but  quick  to  change 
purpose.  This,  then,  was  Richard  Yea-and-Nay, 
whom  all  women  loved,  and  very  few  men. 
These  require  to  be  trusted  before  they  love; 
and  full  trust  Richard  gave  to  no  man,  because 


i6  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

he  could  not  believe  him  worth  it.     Women  are 
more  generous  givers,  expecting  not  again. 

Here  was  Jehane  Saint- Pol,  a  girl  of  two-and- 
twenty  to  his  two-and-thirty,  well  born,  well 
formed,  greatly  desired  among  her  peers,  who, 
having  let  her  soul  be  stolen,  was  prepared  to 
cut  it  out  of  herself  for  his  sake  who  took  it, 
and  let  it  die.  She  was  the  creature  of  his  love, 
in  and  out  by  now  the  work  of  his  hands.  God 
had  given  her  a  magnificent  body,  but  Richard 
had  made  it  glow.  God  had  made  her  soul  a 
fair  room ;  but  his  love  had  filled  it  with  light, 
decked  it  with  flowers  and  such  artful  furniture. 
He,  in  fact,  as  she  very  well  knew,  had  given 
her  the  grace  to  deal  queenly  with  herself.  She 
knew  that  she  would  have  strength  to  deny  him, 
having  learned  the  hardihood  to  give  him  her 
soul.  Fate  had  carried  her  too  young  into  the 
arms  of  the  most  glorious  prince  in  the  world. 
Her  brother,  Eudo  the  Count,  built  castles  on 
that  in  his  head.  Now  she  was  to  tumble  them 
down.  Her  younger  brother,  Eustace,  loved  this 
splendid  Richard.  Now  she  was  to  hurt  him. 
What  was  to  become  of  herself.'*  Mercy  upon 
her,  I  believe  she  never  thought  of  that.  His 
honour  was  her  necessity :  the  watch-fires  in  the 
north  told  her  the  hour  was  at  hand.  The  old 
King  was  come  up  with  a  host  to  drive  his  son 
to  bed.  Richard  must  go,  and  she  woo  him  out. 
Son  of  a  king,  heir  of  a  king,  he  must  go  to  the 
king  his  father ;  and  he  knew  he  must  go.  Two 
days'  maddening  delight,  two  nights'  biting  of  nails, 
miserable  entreaty  from  Jehane,  grown  newly 
pinched  and  grey  in  the  face,  and  he  owned  it. 


CH.  I  THE  FIRES- BY  NIGHT  17 

He  said  to  her  the  last  night,  *When  I  saw 
you  first,  my  Queen  of  Snows,  in  the  tribune  at 
Vezelay,  when  the  knights  rode  by  for  the  melee, 
the  green  light  from  your  eyes  shot  me,  and 
wounded  I  cried  out,  "  That  maid  or  none  !  "  ' 

She  bowed  her  head ;  but  he  went  on.  *  When 
they  throned  you  queen  of  them  all  because 
you  were  so  proud  and  still,  and  had  such  a  high 
untroubled  head;  and  when  your  sleeve  was  in 
my  helm,  and  my  heart  in  your  lap,  and  men 
fallen  to  my  spear  were  sent  to  kneel  before  you 
—  what  caused  your  cheek  to  burn  and  your 
eyes  to  shine  so  bright  ? ' 

She  hid  her  face.  *  Homage  of  the  knights ! 
The  love  of  me ! '  he  cried ;  and  then, '  Ah,  Jehane 
of  the  Fair  Girdle,  when  I  took  you  from  the 
pastures  of  Gisors,  when  I  taught  you  love  and 
learned  from  your  young  mouth  what  love  might 
be,  I  was  made  man.  But  now  you  ask  me  to 
become  dog.'  And  he  swore  yet  again  he  could 
never  leave  her.  But  she  smiled  proudly,  being 
in  pain.  *  Nay,  my  lord,  but  the  man  in  you  is 
awake,  and  not  to  leave  you.  You  shall  go  be- 
cause you  are  the  king's  son,  and  I  shall  pray  for 
the  new  king.'  So  she  beat  him,  and  had  him 
weeping  terribly,  his  face  in  her  lap.  She  wept 
no  more,  but  dry-eyed  kissed  him,  and  dry-lipped 
went  to  bed.  *  He  said  Yea  that  time,'  records 
the  Abbot  Milo,  '  but  I  never  knew  then  what 
she  paid  for  it.  That  was  later.'  He  went  next 
morning,  and  she  saw  him  go. 


CHAPTER   II 

HOW   THE   FAIR   JEHANE    BESTOWED   HERSELF 

Betimes  is  best  for  an  ugly  business ;  your  man 
of  spirit  will  always  rush  what  he  loathes  but  yet 
must  do.  Count  Richard  of  Poictou,  having  made 
up  his  mind  and  confessed  himself  overnight,  must 
leave  with  the  first  cock  of  the  morning,  yet  must 
take  the  sacrament  Before  it  was  grey  in  the 
east  he  did  so,  fully  armed  in  mail,  with  his  red 
surcoat  of  leopards  upon  him,  his  sword  girt,  his 
spurs  strapped  on.  Outside  the  chapel  in  the 
weeping  mirk  a  squire  held  his  shield,  another  his 
helm,  a  groom  walked  his  horse.  Milo  the  Abbot 
was  celebrant,  a  snuffling  boy  served ;  the  Count 
knelt  before  the  housel-cloth  haloed  by  the  light 
of  two  thin  candles.  Hardly  had  the  priest  begun 
his  introibo  when  Jehane  Saint-Pol,  who  had  been 
awake  all  night,  stole  in  with  a  hood  on  her  head, 
and  holding  herself  very  stiffly,  knelt  on  the  floor. 
She  joined  her  hands  and  stuck  them  up  before 
her,  so  that  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  pointing  upwards 
as  her  thoughts  would  fly,  were  nearly  level  with 
her  chin.  '  Thus  frozen  in  prayer  she  remained 
throughout  the  office ;  nor  did  she  relax  when  at 
the  elevation  of  the  Host  Richard  bowed  himself 
to  the  earth.  It  seemed  as  if  she  too,  bearing 
between  her  hands  her  own  heart,  was  lifting  it 
up  for  sacrifice  and  for  worship. 

The  Count  was  communicated.    He  was  a  very 

i8 


CH.  n  JEHANE'S  BESTOWING  19 

religious  man,  who  would  sooner  have  gone  with- 
out his  sword  than  his  Saviour  upon  any  affairs. 
Jehane  saw  him  fed  without  a  twitch  of  the  lips. 
She  was  in  a  great  mood,  a  rapt  and  pillared  saint ; 
but  when  mass  was  over  and  his  thanksgiving  to 
make,  she  got  up  and  hid  herself  away  from  him 
in  the  shades.  There  she  lurked  darkling,  and  he, 
lunging  out,  swept  with  his  sword's  point  the  very 
edge  of  her  gown.  She  did  not  hear  him  go,  for 
he  trod  like  a  cat ;  but  she  felt  him  touch  her  with 
the  sword,  and  shuddered  once  or  twice.  He  went 
out  of  the  courtyard  at  a  gallop. 

While  the  abbot  was  reciting  his  own  thanks- 
giving Jehane  came  out  of  her  corner,  minded  to 
speak  with  him.  So  much  he  divined,  needing  not 
the  beckoning  look  she  sent  him  from  her  guarded 
eyes.  He  sat  himself  down  by  the  altar  of  Saint 
Remy,  and  she  knelt  beside  him. 

'  Well,  my  daughter  ? '  says  Milo. 

*  I  think  it  is  well,'  she  took  him  up. 

The  Abbot  Milo,  a  red-faced,  watery-eyed  old 
man,  rheumy  and  weathered  well,  then  opened  his 
mouth  and  spake  such  wisdom  as  he  knew.  He 
held  up  his  forefinger  like  a  claw,  and  used  it  as 
if  describing  signs  and  wonders  in  the  air. 

'  Hearken,  Madame  Jehane,'  he  said.  *  I  say 
that  you  have  done  well,  and  will  maintain  it. 
That  great  prince,  whom  I  love  like  my  own  son, 
is  not  for  you,  nor  for  another.  No,  no.  He  is 
married  already.' 

He  hoped  to  startle  her,  the  old  rhetorician ; 
but  he  failed.     Jehane  was  too  dreary. 

'He  is  married,  my  daughter,'  he  repeated; 
*and  to  whom.?     Why,  to  himself.     That   man 


20  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

from  the  birth  has  been  a  lonely  soul.  He  can 
never  wed,  as  you  understand  it.  You  think  him 
your  lover!  Believe  me,  he  is  not.  He  is  his 
own  lover.  He  is  called.  He  has  a  destiny. 
And  what  is  that  ?  you  ask  me.' 

She  did  not,  but  rhetoric  bade  him  suppose  it. 
*  Salem  is  his  destiny ;  Salem  is  his  bride,  the  elect 
lady  in  bonds.  He  will  not  wed  Madame  Alois 
of  France,  nor  you,  nor  any  virgin  in  Christendom 
until  that  spiritual  wedlock  is  consummate.  I 
should  not  love  him  as  I  do  if  I  did  not  believe  it. 
For  why  ?  Shall  I  call  my  own  son  apostate  ? 
He  is  signed  with  the  Cross,  a  married  man,  by 
our  Saviour ! ' 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  peering  down  at 
her  to  see  how  she  took  it.  She  took  it  stilly, 
and  turned  him  a  marble,  storm-purged  face,  a 
pair  of  eyes  which  seemed  all  black. 

'  What  shall  I  do  to  be  safe  ? '  Her  voice 
sounded  worn. 

*  Safe,  my  child  ? '  He  wondered.  '  Bless  me, 
is  not  the  Cross  safety  ? ' 

*  Not  with  him,  father.' 

This  was  perfectly  true,  though  tainted  with 
scandal,  he  thought.  The  abbot,  who  was  trained 
to  blink  all  such  facts,  had  to  learn  that  this  girl 
blinked  none.     True  to  his  guidance,  he  blinked. 

'  Go  home  to  your  brother,  my  daughter ;  go 
home  to  Saint-PoUa-Marche.  At  the  worst, 
remember  that  there  are  always  two  arks  for  a 
woman  in  flood-time,  a  convent  and  a  bed.' 

*  I  shall  never  choose  a  convent,'  said  Jehane. 

'  I  think,'  said  the  abbot, '  that  you  are  perfectly 
wise.' 


CH.  II  JEHANE'S  BESTOWING.  21 

I  suppose  the  alternative  struck  a  sudden  terror 
into  her;  for  the  abbot  abruptly  records  in  his 
book  that  'here  her  spirit  seemed  to  flit  out  of 
her,  and  she  began  to  tremble  very  much,  and  in 
vain  to  contend  with  tears.  I  had  her  all  dissolved 
at  my  feet  within  a  few  moments.  She  was  very 
young,  and  seemed  lost' 

'  Come,  come,'  he  said,  *  you  have  shown  your- 
self a  brave  girl  these  two  days.  It  is  not  every  maid 
can  sacrifice  herself  for  a  Count  of  Poictou,  the 
eldest  son  of  a  king.  Come,  come,  let  us  have 
no  more  of  this.'  He  hoped,  no  doubt,  to  brace 
her  by  a  roughness  which  was  far  from  his  nature; 
and  it  is  possible  that  he  succeeded  in  heading  off 
a  mutiny  of  the  nerves.  She  was  not  violent  under 
her  despair,  but  went  on  crying  very  miserably, 
saying,  '  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  what  shall  I  do  .^^ ' 

'  God  knoweth,'  says  the  abbot,  '  this  was  a 
bad  case ;  but  I  had  a  good  thought  for  it'  He 
began  to  speak  of  Richard,  of  what  he  had  done 
and  what  would  live  to  do.  '  They  say  that  the 
strain  of  the  fiend  is  in  that  race,  my  dear,'  he 
told  her.  '  They  say  that  Geoffrey  Grey-Gown 
had  intercourse  with  a  demon.  And  certain  it  is 
that  in  Richard,  as  in  all  his  brothers,  that  stinging 
grain  lives  in  the  blood.  For  testimony  look  at 
their  cognisance  of  leopards,  and  advise  yourself, 
whether  any  house  in  Christendom  ever  took  that 
device  but  had  known  familiarly  the  devil  in  some 
shape  ?  And  look  again  at  the  deeds  of  these 
princes.  What  turned  the  young  king  to  riot  and 
death,  and  Geoffrey  to  rapine  and  death  ?  What 
else  will  turn  John  Sansterre  to  treachery  and 
death,  or  our  tall  Richard  to  violence  and  death  ? 


22  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Nothing  else,  nothing  else.     But  before  he  dies 
you  shall  see  him  glorious ' 

*  He  is  glorious  already/  said  Jehane,  wiping 
her  eyes. 

*  Keep  him  so,  then,'  said  the  abbot  testily,  who 
did  not  love  to  have  his  periods  truncated. 

*  If  I  go  back  to  Saint-Pol,' said  Jehane, 'I  shall 
fall  in  with  Gilles  de  Gurdun,  who  has  sworn  to 
have  me.' 

'  Well,'  replied  the  abbot,  *  why  should  he 
not.f*  Does  he  receive  the  assurance  of  your 
brother  the  Count  ? ' 

Jehane  shook  her  head.  *  No,  no.  My  brother 
wished  me  to  be  my  lord  Richard's.  But  Gilles 
needs  no  assurance.  He  will  buy  my  marriage  from 
the  King  of  France.     He  is  very  sufficient.' 

*  Hath  he  subsjtgjjce  1  Hath  he  lands  ?  Is  he 
noble,  then,  Jehane  ?  ' 

*  He  hathr  knighthood,  a  Church  fief  —  oh, 
enough ! ' 

'  God  forgive  me  if  I  did  amiss,'  writes  the 
abbot  here ;  *  but  seeing  her  in  a  melting  mood, 
dewy,  soft,  and  adorable,  I  kissed  that  beautiful 
person,  and  she  left  the  Chapel  of  Saint  Remy 
somewhat  comforted.' 

Not  only  so,  but  the  same  day  she  left  the  Dark 
Tower  with  her  brother  Count  Eustace,  and  rode 
towards  Gisors  and  Saint- Pol-la- Marche.  Noth- 
ing she  could  do  could  be  shamefully  done,  be- 
cause of  her  silence,  and  the  high  head  upon 
which  she  carried  it ;  yet  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol, 
when  he  heard  her  story,  sitting  bulky  in  his  chair 
(like  a  stalled  red  bull),  did  his  best  to  put  shame 
upon  her,  that  so  he  might  cover  his  own  bitter- 


CH.n  JEHANE'S   BESTOWING  23 

ness.  It  was  Eustace,  a  generous  ardent  youth 
in  those  days,  who  saved  her  from  most  of  Eudo's 
wrath  by  drawing  it  upon  himself. 

The  Count  of  Saint-Pol  swore  a  great  oath. 

*  By  the  teeth  of  God,  Jehane,'  he  roared,  '  I  see 
how  it  is.  He  hath  made  thee  a  piece  of  ruin, 
and  now  runs  wasting  elsewhere.' 

*  You  shall  never  say  that  of  my  sister,  my  lord,' 
cries  Eustace,  very  red  in  the  face, '  nor  yet  of  the 
greatest  knight  in  the  world.' 

*  Why,  you  egg,'  says  the  Count,  *  what  have 
you  to  do  in  this  ?  Tell  me  the  rights  of  it  before 
you  put  me  in  the  wrong.  Is  my  house  to  be  the 
sport  of  Anjou  ?  Is  that  long  son  of  pirates  and 
the  devil  to  batten  on  our  pastures,  tread  under- 
foot, bruise  and  blacken,  rout  as  he  will,  break 
hedge  and  away }  .  By  my  father's  soul,  Eustace, 
I  shall  see  her  righted.'  He  turned  to  the  still 
girl.  'You  tell  me  that  you  sent  him  away? 
Where  did  you  .send  him  ?     Where  did  he  go  ? ' 

*  He  went  to  the  King  of  England  at  Louviers, 
and  to  the  camp,'  said  Jehane.  *  The  King  sent 
for  him.     I  sent  him  not' 

'  Who  is  there  beside  the  King  of  England  ? ' 

*  Madame  Alois  of  France  is  there.' 

The  Count  of  Saint- Pol  put  his  tongue  in  his 
cheek. 

'  Oho  ! '  he  said,  '  Oho  !  That  is  how  it  stands.^ 
So  she  is  to  be  cuckoo,  hey  ? '  He  sat  square  and 
intent  for  a  moment  or  two,  working  his  mouth 
like  a  man  who  chews  a  straw.  Then  he  slapped 
his  big  hand  on  his  knee,  and  rose  up.  '  If  I 
cannot  spike  this  wheel  of  vice,  trust  me  never. 
By  my  soul,  a  plot  indeed.    Oh,  horrible,  horrible 


24  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

thief ! '  He  turned  gnashing  upon  his  brother. 
*  Now,  Eustace,  what  do  you  say  to  your  greatest 
knight  in  the  world  ?  And  what  now  of  your 
sister,  hey  ?  Little  fool,  do  you  not  catch  the 
measure  of  it  now  ?  Two  honey  years  of  Jehane 
Saint-Pol,  gossamer  pledges  of  mouth  and  mouth, 
of  stealing  fingers,  kiss  and  clasp ;  but  for  the 
French  King's  daughter  —  pish !  the  thing  of 
naught  they  have  made  her  —  the  sacrament  of 
marriage,  the  treaty,  the  dowry-fee.  Oh,  heaven 
and  earth,  Eustace,  answer  me  if  you  can.' 

All  three  were  moved  in  their  several  ways: 
the  Count  red  and  blinking,  Eustace  red  and 
trembling,  Jehane  white  as  a  cloth,  trembling  also, 
but  very  silent.  The  word  was  with  the  younger 
man. 

'  I  know  nothing  of  all  this,  upon  my  word,  my 
lord,'  he  said,  confused.  '  I  love  Count  Richard, 
I  love  my  sister.  There  may  have  been  that 
which,  had  I  loved  but  one,  I  had  condemned  in 
the  other.  I  know  not,  but' — he  saw  Jehane's 
marble  face,  and  lifted  his  hand  up — 'by  my  hope, 
I  will  never  believe  it.  In  love  they  came  together, 
my  lord ;  in  love,  says  Jehane,  they  have  parted.  I 
have  heard  little  of  Madame  Alois,  but  my  thought 
is,  that  kings  and  the  sons  of  kings  may  marry 
kings'  daughters,  yet  not  in  the  way  of  love.' 

The  Count  fumed.  '  You  are  a  fool,  I  see, 
and  therefore  not  to  my  purpose.  I  must  talk 
with  men.  Stay  you  here,  Eustace,  and  watch 
over  her  till  I  return.  Let  none  get  at  her,  on 
your  dear  life.  There  are  those  who  —  sniffing 
rogues,  climbers,  boilers  of  their  pots  —  keep  them 
out,  Eustace,  keep  them  out.     As  for  you'  —  he 


CH.  n  JEHANE'S  BESTOWING  25 

turned  hectoring  to  the  proud  girl  —  *  As  for  you, 
mistress,  keep  the  house.  You  are  not  in  the 
market,  you  are  spoilt  goods.  You  shall  go 
where  you  should  be.  I  am  still  lord  of  these 
lands;  there  shall  be  no  rebellion  here.  Keep 
the  house,  I  say.  I  return  ere  many  days.'  He 
stamped  out  of  the  hall ;  they  heard  him  next 
rating  the  grooms  at  the  gate. 

Saint-Pol  was  a  great  house,  a  noble  house,  no 
doubt  of  it.  Its  counts  drew  no  limits  in  the 
way  of  pedigree,  but  built  themselves  a  fair  temple 
in  that  kind,  with  the  Twelfth  Apostle  himself 
for  head  of  the  corner.  So  far  as  estate  went, 
seeing  their  country  was  fruitful,  compact,  snugly 
bounded  between  France  and  Normandy  (owing 
fealty  to  the  first),  they  might  have  been  sovereign 
counts,  like  the  house  of  Blois,  like  that  of 
Aquitair  like  that  even  of  Anjou,  which,  from 
nothing,  id  risen  to  be  so  high.  More :  by 
marriage,  by  robbery  on  that  great  plan  where 
it  ceases  to  be  robbery  and  is  called  warfare,  by 
treaty  and  nice  use  of  the  balances,  there  was 
no  reason  why  kingship  should  not  have  been 
theirs,  or  in  their  blood.  Kingship,  even  now, 
was  not  far  off.  They  called  the  Marquess  of 
Montferrat  cousin,  and  he  (it  was  understood) 
intended  to  be  throned  at  Jerusalem.  The 
Emperor  himself  might  call,  and  once  (being 
in  liquor)  did  call  Count  Eudo  of  Saint-Pol 
*  cousin  ' ;  for  the  fact  was  so.  You  must  under- 
stand that  in  the  Gaul  of  that  day  things  were 
in  this  ticklish  state,  that  a  man  (as  they  say) 
was  worth  the  scope  of  his  sword :  reiver  yester- 
day,   warrior    to-morrow ;    yesterday   wearing    a 


26  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

hemp  collar,  to-day  a  count's  belt,  and  to- 
morrow, may  be,  a  king's  crown.  You  climbed  in 
various  ways,  by  the  field,  by  the  board,  by  the 
bed.  A  handsome  daughter  was  nearly  worth 
a  stout  son.  Count  Eudo  reckoned  himself  stout 
enough,  and  reckoned  Eustace  was  so ;  but  the 
beauty  of  Jehane,  that  stately  maid  who  might 
uphold  a  cornice,  that  still  wonder  of  ivory  and 
gold,  was  an  emblement  which  he,  the  tenant, 
meant  to  profit  by ;  and  so  for  an  hour  (two  years 
by  the  clock)  he  saw  his  profit  fair.  The  infatua- 
tion of  the  girl  for  this  man  or  that  man  was 
nothing;  but  the  infatuation  of  the  great  Count 
of  Poictou  for  her  set  Eudo's  heart  ablaze. 
God  willing.  Saint  Maclou  assisting,  he  might 
live  to  call  Jehane  '  My  Lady  Queen.'  He  shut 
his  ears  to  report;  there  were  those  who  called 
Richard  a  rake,  and  others  who  called  him  '  Yea- 
and-Nay ' ;  that  was  Bertran  de  Born's  name 
for  him,  and  all  Paris  knew  it.  He  shut  his  eyes 
to  Richard's  galling  unconcern  with  himself  and 
his  dignity.  Dignity  of  Saint-Pol!  He  would 
wait  for  his  dignity.  He  shut  his  mind  to 
Jehane's  blown  fame,  to  the  threatenings  of  his 
dreadful  Norman  neighbour,  Henry  the  old  king, 
who  had  had  an  archbishop  pole-axed  like  a  steer; 
he  dared  the  anger  of  his  suzerain,  in  whose 
hands  lay  Jehane's  marriage;  a  heady  gambler, 
he  staked  the  fortunes  of  his  house  upon  this 
clinging  of  a  girl  to  a  wild  prince.  And  now  to 
tell  himself  that  he  deserved  what  he  had  got  was 
but  to  feed  his  rage.  Again  he  swore  by  God's 
teeth  that  he  would  have  his  way ;  and  when  he 
left  his  castle  of  Saint- Pol-la-Marche  it  was  for 
Paris. 


CH.  n  JEHANE'S  BESTOWING  27 

The  head  of  his  house,  under  the  Emperor 
Henry,  was  there,  Conrad  of  Montferrat,  trying 
to  negotiate  the  crown  of  Jerusalem.  There 
must  be  a  conference  before  the  house  of  Saint- 
Pol  could  be  let  to  fall.  Surely  the  Marquess 
would  never  allow  it !  He  must  spike  the  wheel. 
Was  not  Alois  of  France  within  the  degrees? 
She  was  sister  to  the  French  King:  well,  but 
what  was  Richard's  mother?  She  had  been  wife 
to  Louis,  wife  to  Alois'  father.  Was  this  decency  ? 
What  would  the  Pope  say  —  an  Italian?  Was 
the  Marquess  Conrad  an  Italian  for  nothing? 
Was  '  our  cousin '  the  Emperor  of  no  account, 
King  of  the  Romans  ?  The  Pope  Italian,  the 
Marquess  Italian,  the  Emperor  on  his  throne, 
and  God  in  His  heaven  —  eh,  eh!  there  should 
be  a  conference  of  these  high  powers.  So,  and 
with  such  whirl  of  question  and  answer,  did  the 
Count  of  Saint-Pol  beat  out  to  Paris. 

But  Jehane  remained  at  Saint-Pol-la-Marche, 
praying  much,  going  little  abroad,  seeing  few 
persons.  Then  came  (since  rumour  is  a  gadabout) 
Sir  Gilles  de  Gurdun,  as  she  knew  he  would,  and 
knelt  before  her,  and  kissed  her  hand.  Gilles  was 
a  square-shouldered,  thick-set  youth  of  the  black 
Norman  sort,  ruddy,  strong-jawed,  small-eyed,  low 
in  the  brow,  bullet-headed.  He  was  no  taller  than 
she,  looked  shorter,  and  had  nothing  to  say.  He 
had  loved  her  since  the  time  when  she  was  an 
overgrown  girl  of  twelve  years,  and  he  a  squire 
about  her  father's  house  learning  mannishness. 
The  King  of  England  had  dubbed  him  a  knight, 
but  she  had  made  him  a  man.  She  knew  him  to 
be  a  good  one ;  as  dull  as  a  mud-flat,  but  honest, 


28  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

wholesome,  and  of  decent  estate.  In  a  moment, 
when  he  was  come  again,  she  saw  that  he  was  a 
long  lover  who  would  treat  her  well. 

'  God  help  me,  and  him  also,'  she  thought ;  *  it 
may  be  that  I  shall  need  him  before  long.' 


CHAPTER   III 

IN  WHAT   HARBOUR   THEY   FOUND   THE 
OLD    LION 

At  Evreux,  across  the  heath,  Count  Richard 
found  his  company:  the  Viscount  Adhemar  of 
Limoges  (called  for  the  present  the  Good  Vis- 
count), the  Count  of  Perigord,  Sir  Gaston  of 
Beam  (who  really  loved  him),  the  Bishop  of  Cas- 
tres,  and  the  Monk  of  Montauban  (a  singing- 
bird)  ;  some  dozen  of  knights  with  their  esquires, 
pages,  and  men-at-arms.  He  waited  two  days 
there  for  Abbot  Milo  to  come  up  with  last  news 
of  Jehane;  then  at  the  head  of  sixty  spears  he 
rode  fleetly  over  the  marshes  towards  Louviers. 
After  his  first,  '  You  are  well  met,  my  lords,'  he 
had  said  very  little,  showing  a  cold  humour ;  after 
a  colloquy  with  Milo,  which  he  had  before  he  left 
his  bed,  he  said  nothing  at  all.  Alone,  as  became 
one  of  his  race,  he  rode  ahead  of  his  force ;  not 
even  the  chirping  Monk  (who  remembered  his 
brother  Henry  and  often  sighed  for  him)  cared  to 
risk  a  shot  from  his  strong  eyes.  They  were  like 
blue  stones,  full  of  the  cold  glitter  of  their  fire.  It 
was  at  times  like  this,  when  a  man  stands  naked 
confronting  his  purpose,  that  one  saw  the  hag 
riding  on  the  back  of  Anjou. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  it  now,  but  the  truth  is 
that  there  had  hardly  been  a  time  in  his  short  life 
when  he  had  not  been  his  father's  open  enemy. 

29 


30  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

He  could  have  told  you  that  it  had  not  been 
always  his  fault,  though  he  would  never  have  told 
you.  But  I  say  that  what  he,  a  youth  of  thirty, 
had  made  of  his  inheritance  was  as  nothing  to 
that  elder's  wasting  of  his.  In  moments  of  hot 
rage  Richard  knew  this,  and  justified  himself;  but 
the  melting  hour  came  again  when  he  heaped  all 
reproach  upon  himself,  believing  that  but  for  such 
and  such  he  might  have  loved  this  rooted,  terrible 
old  man  who  assuredly  loved  not  him.  Richard 
was  neither  mule  nor  jade ;  he  was  open  to  per- 
suasion on  two  sides.  Compunction  was  one : 
you  could  touch  him  on  the  heart  and  bring  him 
weeping  to  his  knees ;  affection  was  another :  if 
he  loved  the  petitioner  he  yielded  handsomely. 
Now,  this  time  it  was  Jehane  and  not  his  con- 
science which  had  sent  him  to  Louviers.  First  of 
all  Jehane  had  pleaded  the  Sepulchre,  his  old 
father,  filial  obedience,  and  he  had  laughed  at  the 
sweet  fool.  But  when  she,  grown  wiser,  urged 
him  to  pleasure  her  by  treading  on  the  heart  she 
had  given  him,  he  could  not  deny  her.  He  was 
converted,  not  convinced.  So  he  rode  alone,  three 
hundred  yards  from  his  lieges,  reasoning  out  how 
he  could  preserve  his  honour  and  yet  yield.  The 
more  he  thought  the  less  he  liked  it,  but  all  the 
more  he  felt  necessity  at  his  throat.  And,  as 
always  with  him,  when  he  thought  he  seemed  as 
if  turned  to  stone.  '  One  way  or  another,'  Milo 
tells  us,  '  every  man  of  the  House  of  Anjou  had 
his  unapproachable  side,  so  accustomed  were  they 
to  the  fortress-life.' 

A  broad  plain,  watered  by  many  rivers,  showed 
the  towers  of  Louviers  and  red  roofs  cinctured  by 


CH.  m  THE  OLD   LION  31 

the  greatest  of  them ;  short  of  the  walls  were  the 
ranked  white  tents,  columned  smoke,  waggons, 
with  men  and  horses,  as  purposeless,  little,  and 
busy  as  a  swarm  of  bees.  In  the  midst  of  this 
array  was  a  red  pavilion  with  a  standard  at  the 
side,  too  heavy  for  the  wind.  All  was  set  in  the 
clear  sunless  air  of  an  autumn  day  in  Normandy ; 
the  hour,  one  short  of  noon.  Richard  reined  up 
for  his  company,  on  a  little  hill. 

*  The  powers  of  England,  my  lords,'  he  said, 
pointing  with  his  hand.  All  stayed  beside  him. 
Gaston  of  Beam  tweaked  his  black  beard. 

*  Let  us  be  done  with  the  business,  Richard,* 
said  this  knight,  '  before  the  irons  can  get  out.' 

'What!'  cried  the  Count,  'shall  a  father  smite 
his  son  ? '  No  one  answered :  in  a  moment  he 
was  ashamed  of  himself.  '  Before  God,'  he  said, 
'  I  mean  no  impiety.  I  will  do  what  I  have 
undertaken  as  gently  as  may  be.  Come,  gentle- 
men.'    He  rode  on. 

The  camp  was  defended  by  fosse  and  bridge. 
At  the  barbican  all  the  Aquitanians  except  Rich- 
ard dismounted,  and  all  stayed  about  him  while 
a  herald  went  forward  to  tell  the  King  who  was 
come  in.  The  King  knew  very  well  who  it  was, 
but  chose  not  to  know  it;  he  kept  the  herald 
long  enough  to  make  his  visitors  chafe,  then  sent 
word  that  the  Count  of  Poictou  would  be  received, 
but  alone.  Claiming  his  right  to  ride  in,  Richard 
followed  the  heralds  at  a  foot's  pace,  alone,  un- 
greeted  by  any.  At  the  mount  of  the  standard 
he  got  off  his  horse,  found  the  ushers  of  the  King's 
door,  and  went  swiftly  to  the  entry  of  the  pavilion 
(which  they  held  open  for  him),  as  though,  like 


32  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

some  forest  beast,  he  saw  his  prey.  There  in  the 
entry  he  stiffened  suddenly,  and  stiffly  went  down 
on  his  two  knees.  Midway  of  the  great  tent, 
square  and  rugged  before  him,  with  working  jaws 
and  restless  little  fired  eyes,  sat  the  old  King  his 
father,  hands  on  knees,  between  them  a  long  bare 
sword.  Beside  him  was  his  son  John,  thin  and 
flushed,  and  about,  a  circle  of  peers :  two  bishops 
in  purple,  a  pock-marked  monk  of  Cluny,  Bohun, 
Grantmesnil,  Drago  de  Merlou,  and  a  few  more. 
On  the  ground  was  a  secretary  biting  his  pen. 

The  King  looked  his  best  on  a  throne,  for  his 
upper  part  was  his  best.  It  was,  at  least,  the 
mannish  part.  With  scanty  red  hair  much 
rubbed  into  disorder,  a  seamed  red  face,  blotched 
and  shining;  with  a  square  jaw  awry,  the  neck 
and  shoulders  of  a  bull ;  with  gnarled  gross  hands 
at  the  end  of  arms  long  out  of  measure,  a  cruel 
mouth  and  a  nose  like  a  bird's  beak — his  features 
seemed  to  have  been  hacked  coarsely  out  of  wood 
and  as  coarsely  painted;  but  what  might  have 
passed  by  such  means  for  a  man  was  transformed 
by  his  burning  eyes,  with  their  fuel  of  pain,  into 
the  similitude  of  a  fallen  angel.  The  devil  of 
Anjou  sat  eating  King  Henry's  eyes,  and  you 
saw  him  at  his  meal.  It  gave  the  man  the  look 
of  a  wild  boar  easing  his  tusks  against  a  tree, 
horrible,  yet  content  to  be  abhorred,  splendid, 
because  so  strong  and  lonely.  But  the  prospect 
was  not  comfortable.  Little  as  he  knew  of  his 
father,  Richard  could  make  no  mistake  here. 
The  old  King  was  in  a  picksome  mood,  fretted 
by  rage :  angry  that  his  son  should  kneel  there, 
more  than  angry  that  he  had  not  knelt  before. 


CH.  Ill  THE   OLD   LION  33 

The  play  began,  like  a  farce.  The  King  affected 
not  to  see  him,  let  him  kneel  on.  Richard  did 
kneel  on,  as  stiff  as  a  rod.  The  King  talked  with 
obscene  jocosity,  every  snap  betraying  his  humour, 
to  Prince  John ;  he  scandalised  even  his  bishops, 
he  abashed  even  his  barons.  He  infinitely  de- 
graded himself,  yet  seemed  to  wallow  in  disgrace. 
So  Richard's  gorge  (a  tender  organ)  rose  to  hear 
him.  '  God,  what  wast  Thou  about,  to  let  such 
a  hog  be  made  ?  '  he  muttered,  loud  enough  for  at 
least  three  people  to  hear.  The  King  heard  it 
and  was  pleased ;  the  Prince  heard  it,  and  with  a 
scared  eye  perceived  that  Bohun  had  heard  it. 
The  King  went  grating  on,  John  fidgeted ; 
Bohun,  greatly  daring,  whispered  in  his  master's 
ear. 

The  King  replied  with  a  roar  which  all  the 
camp  might  have  heard.  '  Ha !  Sacred  Face,  let 
him  kneel,  Bohun.  That  is  a  new  custom  for 
him,  useful  science  for  a  man  of  his  trade.  All 
men  of  the  sword  come  to  it  sooner  or  later  — 
sooner  or  later,  by  God  ! ' 

Hereupon  Richard,  very  deliberately,  rose  to 
his  feet  and  stepped  forward  to  the  throne.  His 
great  height  was  a  crowning  abomination.  The 
King  blinked  up  at  him,  showing  his  tushes. 

'  What  now,  sir  ? '  he  said. 

'  Later  for  me,  sire,  if  kneeling  is  to  be  done 
by  soldiers,'  said  Richard.  The  King  controlled 
himself  by  swallowing. 

'  And  yet,  Richard,'  he  said,  dry  as  dust,  '  And 
yet,  Richard,  you  have  knelt  to  the  French  lad 
soon  enough.' 

'  To  my  liege-lord,  sire  ?     Yes,  it  is  true.* 


34  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

*He  is  not  your  liege-lord,  man,'  roared  the 
King.  *  I  am  your  liege-lord,  by  heaven.  I 
gave  and  I  can  take  away.     Heed  me  now.' 

'  Fair  sire,'  says  Richard,  '  observe  that  I  have 
knelt  to  you.  I  am  not  here  for  any  other  reason, 
and  least  of  all  to  try  conclusions  of  the  voice.  - 1 
have  come  out  of  my  lands  with  my  company  to 
give  you  obedience.  Be  sure  that  they,  on  their 
part,  will  pay  you  proper  honour  (as  I  do)  if  you 
will  let  them.' 

*  You  come  from  lands  I  have  given  you,  as 
Henry  came,  as  Geoffrey  came,  to  defy  me,'  said 
the  old  man,  trembling  in  his  chair.  *  What  is 
your  obedience  worth  when  I  have  measured 
theirs:  Henry's  obedience!  Geoffrey's  obedi- 
ence !  Pish,  man,  what  words  you  use:'  He 
got  up  and  stamped  about  the  tent  like  an  irri- 
table dwarf,  crook-legged  and  long-armed,  pricked, 
maddened  at  every  point.  *  And  you  tell  me  of 
your  men,  your  lands,  your  company!  Good 
men  all,  a  fair  company,  by  the  Rood  of  Grace ! 
Tell  me  now,  Richard,  have  you  Raimon  of 
Toulouse  in  that  company  ?    Have  you  Beziers }  * 

*  No,  sire,'  said  Richard,  looking  serenely  down 
at  the  working  face. 

*  Nor  ever  will  have,'  snarled  the  King.  *  Have 
you  the  Knight  of  Beam  ? ' 

*  I  have,  sire.' 

*  111  company,  Richard.  It  is  a  white-faced, 
lying  beast,  with  a  most  goatish  beard.  Have 
you  your  singing  monk } ' 

*  I  have,  sire.' 

*  Shameful  company.  Have  you  Adhemar  of 
Limoges } ' 


CH.ra  THE  OLD  LION  35 

*  Yes,  sire.' 

*  Silly  company.  Leave  him  with  his  women. 
Have  you  your  Abbot  Milo } ' 

*Yes.' 

'Sick  company.'  His  head  sank  into  his 
breast;  he  found  himself  suddenly  tired,  even 
of  reviling,  and  had  to  sit  down  again.  Richard 
felt  a  tide  of  pity ;  looking  down  at  the  huddled 
old  man,  he  held  out  his  hand. 

'  Let  us  not  quarrel,  father,'  he  said ;  but  that 
brought  up  the  King's  head,  like  a  call  to  arms. 

'A  last  question,  Richard.  Have  you  dared 
bring  here  Bertran  de  Born  ? '  He  was  on  his 
feet  again  for  the  reply,  and  the  two  men  faced 
each  other.  Everybody  knew  how  serious  the 
question  was.  It  sobered  the  Count,  but  drove 
the  pity  out  of  him. 

•  '  Dare  is  not  a  word  for  Anjou,  sire,'  he 
replied,  picking  his  phrases ;  '  but  Bertran  is 
not  with  me.'  Before  the  old  man  could  break 
again  into  savagery  he  went  on  to  his  main 
purpose.  '  Sire,  short  speeches  are  best.  You 
seek  to  draw  my  ill-humours,  but  you  shall  not 
draw  them.  As  son  and  servant  of  your  Grace 
I  came  in,  and  so  will  go  out.  As  a  son  I  have 
knelt  to  the  King  my  father,  as  servant  I  am 
ready  to  obey  him.  Let  that  marriage,  designed 
in  the  cradle  by  the  French  King  and  you,  go  on. 
I  will  do  my  part  if  Madame  Alois  will  do  hers.' 

Richard  folded  his  arms;  the  King  sat  down 
again.  A  queer  exchange  of  glances  had  passed 
between  his  father  and  brother  at  the  mention  of 
that  lady's  name.  Richard,  who  saw  it,  got  the 
feeling  of  some  secret  between  them,  the  feeling  of 


36  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

being  in  a  trap ;  but  he  said  nothing.  The  King 
began  his  old  harping. 

'Attend  to  me  now,  Richard,'  he  said,  with 
much  work  of  the  eyebrows;  'if  that  ill-gotten 
beast  Bertran  had  been  of  your  meinie  our  last 
words  had  been  said.  Beast !  He  is  a  toothed 
snake,  that  crawled  into  my  boy's  bed  and  bit 
passion  into  him.  Lord  Jesus,  if  ever  again  I 
meet  Bertran,  help  Thou  me  to  redden  his  face ! 
But  as  it  is,  I  am  content.  Rest  you  here  with  me, 
if  so  rough  a  lodging  may  content  your  nobility. 
As  for  Madame  Alois,  she  shall  be  sent  for ;  but 
I  think  I  will  not  meet  your  bevy  of  joglars  from 
the  south.  I  have  a  proud  stomach  o'  these  days ; 
I  doubt  pastry  from  Languedoc  would  turn  me 
sour;  and  liking  monks  little  enough  as  it  is, 
your  throstle-cock  of  Montauban  might  cause 
tne  to  blaspheme.  See  them  entertained,  DragO; 
or  better,  let  them  entertain  each  other  —  with 
singing  games,  holy  God !  Go  you,  Bohun '  — 
and  he  turned  —  'fetch  in  Madame  Alois.' 
Bohun  went  through  a  curtain  behind  him,  and 
the  King  sat  in  thought,  biting  his  thumbs. 

Madame  Alois  of  France  came  out  of  the  inner 
tent,  a  slinking,  thin  girl,  with  the  white  and 
tragic  face  of  the  fool  in  a  comedy  set  in  black 
hair.  Richard  thought  she  was  mad  by  the  way 
she  stared  about  her  from  one  man  to  another; 
but  he  went  down  on  his  knee  in  a  moment. 
Prince  John  turned  stiff,  the  old  King  bent  his 
brows  to  watch  Richard.  The  lady,  who  was 
dressed  in  black,  and  looked  to  be  half  fainting, 
shrank  in  an  odd  way  towards  the  wall,  as  if  to 
avoid  a  whip.     '  Too  long  in  England,  poor  soul,' 


CH.ra  THE  OLD  LION  37 

Richard  thought ;  *  but  why  did  she  come  from 
the  King's  tent  ? ' 

It  was  not  a  cheerful  meeting,  nor  did  the  King 
show  any  desire  to  make  it  better.  When  by 
roundabout  and  furtive  ways  Madame  Alois  at 
last  stood  drooping  by  his  chair,  he  began  to  talk 
to  her  in  English,  a  language  unknown  to  Richard, 
though  familiar  enough,  he  saw,  to  his  father  and 
brother.  *  It  seems  to  be  his  Grace's  desire  to 
make  me  ridiculous,'  he  went  on  to  say  to  him- 
self :  '  what  a  dead-level  of  grim  words !  In  Eng- 
lish, it  appears,  you  do  not  talk.  You  stab  with 
the  tongue.'  In  truth,  there  was  no  conversation. 
The  King  or  the  Prince  spoke,  and  Madame 
Alois  moistened  her  lips;  she  looked  nowhere  but 
at  the  old  tyrant,  not  at  his  eyes,  but  above  them, 
at  his  forehead,  and  with  a  trepitant  gaze,  like  a 
watched  hare's.  '  The  King  has  her  in  thrall, 
soul  and  body,'  Richard  considered.  Then  his 
knee  began  to  ache,  and  he  released  it. 

*  Fair  sire,'  he  began  in  his  own  tongue.  Ma- 
dame Alois  gave  a  start,  and  '  Ha,  Richard,'  says 
the  King,  *  art  thou  still  there,  man  ? ' 

*  Where  else,  my  lord  ? '  asked  the  son.  The 
father  looked  at  Alois. 

*  Deign  to  recognise  in  this  baron,  Madame,' 
he  said,  '  my  son  the  Count  of  Poictou.  Let  him 
salute,  Madame,  that  which  he  has  sought  from  so 
far,  and  with  such  humility,  pardieu ;  your  white 
hand,  Alois.'  The  strange  girl  quivered,  then 
put  her  hand  out.  Richard,  kissing  it,  found  it 
horribly  cold. 

'  Lady,'  he  said,  '  I  pray  we  may  be  better  ac- 
quainted; but    I  must  tell   you  that  I  have  no 


38  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

English.  Let  me  hope  that  in  this  good  land 
you  may  recover  your  French.'  He  got  no 
answer  from  the  lady,  but,  by  heaven,  he  made 
his  father  angry. 

'  We  hope,  Richard,  that  you  will  teach  Madame 
.better  things  than  that,'  sniffed  the  old  man,  nos- 
ing about  for  battle. 

'  I  pray  that  I  may  teach  her  no  worse,  my  lord,* 
replied  the  other.  '  You  will  perhaps  allow  that 
for  a  daughter  of  France  the  tongue  may  have  its 
uses.' 

'  As  English,  Count,  for  the  son  of  England ! ' 
cried  his  father;  'or  for  his  wife,  by  the  mass,  if 
he  is  fit  to  have  one.' 

'Of  that,  sire,  we  must  talk  at  your  Grace's 
leisure,'  said  Richard  slowly.  '  Jesus  ! '  he  asked 
himself,  '  will  he  put  me  to  a  block  of  ice  ?  What 
is  the  matter  with  this  woman  ? '  The  King  put 
an  end  to  his  questions  by  dismissing  Madame 
Alois,  breaking  up  the  assembly,  and  himself 
retiring.  He  was  dreadfully  fatigued,  quite  white 
and  breathless.  Richard  saw  him  follow  the  lady 
through  the  inner  curtain,  and  again  was  uncom- 
fortably suspicious.  But  when  his  brother  John 
made  to  slip  in  also  he  thought  there  must  be 
an  end  of  it.  He  tapped  the  young  man  on  the 
shoulder. 

'  Brother,  a  word  with  you,'  says  he ;  and  John 
came  twittering  back.  The  two  were  alone  in 
the  tent. 

This  John  —  Sansterre,  Landlos,  Lackland,  so 
they  variously  called  him  —  was  a  timid  copy  of 
his  brother,  a  wry-necked  reedy  Richard  with  a 
sniff.     Not  so  tall,  yet  more  spare,  with  blue  eyes 


CH.  Ill  THE   OLD   LION  39 

more  pallid  than  his  brother's,  and  protruding 
where  Richard's  were  inset,  the  difference  lay 
more  in  degree  than  kind.  Richard  was  of  heroic 
build,  but  a  well-knit,  well-shaped  hero ;  in  John 
the  arms  were  too  long,  the  head  too  small,  the 
brow  too  narrow.  Richard's  eyes  were  perhaps 
too  wide  apart ;  no  doubt  John's  were  too  near 
together.  Richard  twitched  his  fingers  when  he 
was  moved,  John  bit  his  cheek.  Richard  stooped 
from  the  neck,  John  from  the  shoulders.  When 
Richard  threw  up  his  head  you  saw  the  lion; 
John  at  bay  reminded  you  of  a  wolf  in  a  corner. 
John  snarled  at  such  times,  Richard  breathed 
through  his  nose.  John  showed  his  teeth  when 
he  was  crossed,  Richard  when  he  was  merry. 
So  many  thousand  points  of  unlikeness  might  be 
named,  all  small :  the  Lord  knows  here  are 
enough.  The  Angevin  cat-and-dog  nature  was 
fairly  divided  between  these  two.  Richard  had 
the  sufficiency  of  the  cat,  John  the  dependence 
of  a  dog ;  John  had  the  cat's  secretiveness, 
Richard  the  dog's  dash.  At  heart  John  was  a 
thief. 

He  feared  and  hated  his  brother;  so  when 
Richard  said,  '  Brother,  a  word  with  you,'  John 
tried  to  disguise  apprehension  in  disgust.  The 
result  was  a  very  sick  smile. 

'  Willingly,  dear  brother,  and  the  more  so * 

he  began ;  but  Richard  cut  him  short. 

'  What  under  the  light  of  the  sky  is  the  matter 
with  that  lady  ? '  he  asked  him. 

John  had  been  preparing  for  that.  He  raised 
his  eyebrows  and  splayed  out  both  his  hands. 

'Can  you  ask.-^     Eh,  our  Lord!     Emotion  —  a 


40  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

stranger  in  a  strange  land  —  an  access  of  the 
shudders  —  who  knows  women  ?  So  long  from 
France — dreadful  of  her  brother  —  dreadful  of 
you  —  so  many  things !  a  silly  mind  —  ah,  my 
brother ! ' 

Richard  checked  him  testily.  '  Put  a  point, 
put  a  point,  you  drown  me  in  phrases;  your 
explanations  explain  nothing.  One  more  word. 
What  in  the  devil's  name  is  she  doing  in  there  ? ' 
He  had  a  short  way.     John  began  to  stammer. 

*A  second  father  —  a  tender  guardian * 

*  Pish ! '  said  Count  Richard,  and  turned  to 
leave  the  pavilion.  Prince  John  slipped  through 
the  curtains,  and  at  that  moment  Richard  heard 
a  little  fretful  cry  within,  not  the  cry  of  mortal 
lady.  '  What  under  heaven  have  they  got  in 
there,  this  family?'  he  asked  himself.  Shrugging, 
he  went  out  into  the  fresh  air. 

The  abbot  notes  that  his  lord  and  master  came 
running  into  his  quarters, '  and  tumbled  upon  me, 
like  a  lover  who  finds  his  mistress  after  many  days. 
"  Milo,  Milo,  Milo,"  he  began  to  cry,  three  times 
over,  as  if  the  name  helped  him,  "Thou  wilt  live 
to  see  a  puddock  upon  the  throne  of  England !  " 
Thus  he  strangely  said/ 


CHAPTER   IV 

HOW  JEHANE   STROKED   WHAT   ALOIS    HAD   MADE 
FIERCE 

When  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol  came  to  Paris  he 
found  the  going  very  delicate.  For  it  is  a  deli- 
cate matter  to  confer  in  a  king's  capital,  with  a 
king's  allies,  how  best  to  throw  obstacles  in  that 
king's  way.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  found  that  he 
could  do  little  or  nothing  in  the  business.  King 
Philip  was  in  great  feather  concerning  his  sister's 
arrival;  the  heralds  were  preparing  to  go  out  to 
meet  her.  Nicholas  d'Eu  and  the  Baron  of 
Quercy  were  to  accompany  them;  King  Philip 
thought  Saint-Pol  the  very  man  to  make  a  third, 
but  this  did  not  suit  the  Count  at  all.  He  sought 
out  his  kinsman  the  Marquess  of  Montferrat,  a 
heavy  Italian,  who  gave  him  very  little  comfort. 
All  he  could  suggest  was  that  his  '  good  cousin ' 
would  do  better  to  help  him  to  the  certain  throne 
of  Jerusalem.  *  What  do  you  want  with  more 
than  one  king  in  a  family  ? '  asked  the  Marquess. 
Saint-Pol  grew  rather  dry  as  he  assured  him  that 
one  king  would  suffice,  and  that  Anjou  was  nearer 
than  Jerusalem.  He  went  on  to  hint  at  various 
strange  speculations  rife  concerning  the  history 
of  Madame  Alois.  '  If  you  want  garbage,  Kudo,' 
said  Montferrat  to  this,  '  come  not  to  me.  But  I 
know  a  rat  who  might  be  of  service.' 

41 


42  .  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

'  The  name  of  your  rat,  Marquess !  It  is  all  I  ask.' 
'  Bertran  de  Born :  who  else  ? '  said  Montferrat. 
Now,  Bertran  de  Born  was  the  thorn  in  the  flesh 
of  Anjou,  a  rankling  addition  to  their  state  whom 
they  were  never  without.  Saint-Pol  knew  his 
value  very  well,  and  decided  to  go  down  to  see 
the  man  in  his  own  country.  So  he  would  have 
gone,  no  doubt,  had  not  his  sovereign  judged 
otherwise.  Saint-Pol  received  commands  to  ac- 
company the  heralds  to  Louviers,  so  had  to  con- 
tent himself  with  a  messenger  to  the  trobador 
and  a  letter  which  announced  the  extreme  happi- 
ness of  the  great  Count  of  Poictou.  This,  he 
knew,  would  draw  the  poison-bag. 

The  Frenchmen  arrived  at  Louviers  none  too 
soon.  As  well  mix  fire  and  ice  as  Poictevin 
with  Norman  or  Angevin  with  Angevin.  The 
princes  stalked  about  with  claws  out  of  velvet, 
the  nobles  bickered  fiercely,  and  the  men-at-arms 
did  after  their  kind.  There  was  open  fighting. 
Gaston  of  Beam  picked  a  quarrel  with  John  Bote- 
tort,  and  they  fought  it  out  with  daggers  in  the 
fosse.  Then  Count  Richard  took  one  of  his 
brother's  goshawks  and  would  not  give  it  up. 
Over  the  long  body  of  that  bird  half  a  score 
noblemen  engaged  with  swords ;  the  Count  of 
Poictou  himself  accounted  for  six,  and  ended  by 
pommelling  his  brother  into  a  red  jelly.  There 
was  a  week  or  more  of  this,  during  which  the  old 
King  hunted  like  a  madman  all  day  and  revelled 
in  gloomy  vices  all  night.  Richard  saw  little  of 
him  and  little  of  the  lady  of  France.  She,  a  pale 
shade,  flitted  dismally  out  when  evoked  by  the 
King,   dismally   in   again   at    a   nod   from   him. 


CH.  IV  THE   LEOPARD   STROKED         •  43 

Whenever  she  did  appear  Prince  John  hovered 
about,  looking  tormented;  afterwards  the  pock- 
marked Cluniac  might  be  heard  lecturing  her  on 
theology  and  the  soul's  business  in  passionless 
monologue.  It  was  very  far  from  gay.  As  for 
her,  Richard  believed  her  melancholy  mad ;  he 
himself  grew  fretful,  irritable,  most  quarrelsome. 
Thus  it  was  that  he  first  plundered  and  then 
punched  his  brother. 

After  that  Prince  John  disappeared  for  a  little 
to  nurse  his  sores,  and  Richard  got  within  fair 
speaking  distance  of  Madame  Alois.  In  fact,  she 
sent  for  him  late  one  night  wheh  the  King,  as  he 
knew,  was  away,  munching  the  ashes  of  charred 
pleasure  in  some  stews  or  other.  He  obeyed  the 
summons  with  a  half-shrug. 

They  received  him  with  consternation.  The 
distracted  lady  was  in  a  chair,  hugging  herself; 
the  Cluniac  stood  by,  a  mortified  emblem ;  a  scared 
woman  or  two  fled  behind  the  throne.  Madame 
Alois,  when  she  saw  who  the  visitor  was,  began 
to  shake. 

*  Oh,  oh ! '  she  said  in  a  whisper,  *  have  you 
come  to  murder  me,  my  lord  ? ' 

'  Why,  Madame,'  Richard  made  haste  to  say, 
*  I  would  serve  you  any  other  way  but  that,  and 
supposed  I  had  the  right.  But  I  came  because 
you  sent  for  me.' 

She  passed  her  hand  once  or  twice  over  her 
face,  as  if  to  brush  cobwebs  away ;  one  of  the 
women  made  a  piteous  appeal  of  the  eyes  to 
Richard,  who  took  no  notice  of  it ;  the  monk  said 
something  to  himself  in  a  low  voice,  then  to  the 
Count,  '  Madame  is  overwrought,  my  lord.' 


44  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

*  Yes,  you  rascal,'  thought  Richard ;  '  your 
work.'  Aloud  he  said,  '  I  hope  her  Grace  will 
give  you  leave  to  retire,  sir.'  Madame  hereupon 
waved  her  people  away,  and  went  on  waving  long 
after  they  had  gone.  Thus  she  was  alone  with 
her  future  lord.  There  was  the  wreck  of  fine 
beauty  about  her  drawn  face,  beauty  of  the  black- 
and-white,  sheeted  sort;  but  she  looked  as  if 
she  walked  with  ghosts.  Richard  was  very  gentle 
with  her.  He  drew  near,  saying,  '  I  grieve  to  see 
you  thus,  Madame ' ;  but  she  stopped  him  with  a 
question  — 

'  They  seek  to  have  you  marry  me  ? ' 

He  smiled :   '  Our  masters  desire  it,  Madame/ 

*  Are  you  very  sure  of  that? ' 

*  I  am  here/  he  explained,  '  because  I  am  so 
sure.' 

'  And  you  desire ' 

*  I,  Madame,'  he  said  quickly  and  shortly, 
'  desire  two  things  —  the  good  of  my  country  and 
your  good.  If  I  desire  anything  else,  God  knows 
it  is  to  keep  my  promise.' 

'  What  is  your  promise  ? ' 

'  Madame,'  said  Richard,  '  I  bear  the  Cross  on 
my  shoulder,  as  you  see.' 

'  Why,'  she  said,  fearfully  regarding  it,  '  that  is 
God's  work ! ' 

She  began  to  walk  about'  the  room  quickly,  and 
to  talk  to  herself.  He  could  not  catch  properly 
what  she  said.  Religion  came  into  it,  and  a 
question  of  time.  '  Now  it  should  be  done,  now 
it  should  be  done ! '  and  then,  '  Hear,  O  thou 
Shepherd  of  Israel ! '  and  then  with  a  wild  look 
into  Richard's  face  — '  That  was  a  strange  thing  to 


\ 


CH.IV  THE   LEOPARD   STROKED  45 

do  to  a  lady.  They  can  never  lay  that  to  me ! ' 
Afterwards  she  began  to  wring  her  hands,  with  a 
cry  of  '  Fie,  poison,  poison,  poison ! '  looking  at 
Richard  all  the  time. 

*  This  poor  lady,'  he  told  himself,  '  is  possessed 
by  a  devil,  therefore  no  wife  for  me,  who  have 
devil  enough  and  to  spare.' 

'  What    ails    you,    Madame  ? '    he    asked   her. 

*  Tell  me  your  grief,  and  upon  my  life  I  will 
amend  it  if  I  can.' 

*  You  cannot,'  she  said.  '  Nothing  can  mend 
it.' 

'  Then,  with  leave' — he  went  to  the  curtains  — 

*  I  will  call  your  Grace's  people.  Our  discussions- 
can  be  later ;  there  is  time  enough.' 

She  would  have  stopped  him  had  she  dared,  or 
had  the  force;  but  literally  she  was  spent.  There 
was  just  time  to  get  the  women  in  before  she 
tumbled.  Richard,  in  his  perplexity,  determined 
to  wrangle  out  the  matter  with  the  King  on  the 
morrow,  cost  what  it  might.  So  he  did  ;  and  to 
his  high  surprise  the  King  reasoned  instead  of 
railing.  Madame  Alois,  he  said,  was  weakly,  un- 
wholesome indeed.  In  his  opinion  she  wanted, 
what  all  young  women  want,  a  husband.  She  was 
too  much  given  to  the  cloister,  she  had  visions, 
she  was  feared  to  use  the  discipline,  she  ate 
nothing,  was  more  often  on  her  knees  than  on 
her  feet.  '  All  this,  my  son,'  said  King  Henry, 
'  you  shall  correct  at  your  discretion.  Humours, 
vapours,  qualms,  fantasies  —  pouf !  You  can  blow 
them  away  with  a  kiss.  Have  you  tried  it.^^  No? 
Too  cold  ?  Nay,  but  you  should.'  And  so  on, 
and  so  on.     That  day,  none  too  soon,  the  French 


46  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  r 

ambassadors  arrived,  and  Richard  saw  the  Count 
of  Saint-Pol  among  them. 

He  had  never  hked  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol; 
or  perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say  that  he  dis- 
liked him  more  than  ordinary.  But  he  belonged 
to,  had  even  a  tinge  of,  Jehane;  some  of  her 
secret  fragrance  hung  about  him,  he  walked  in 
some  ray  of  her  glory.  It  seemed  to  Richard, 
bothered,  sick,  fretted,  a  little  disconcerted  as  he 
was  now,  that  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol  had  an  air 
which  none  other  of  this  people  had.  He  greeted 
him  therefore  with  more  than  usual  affability, 
very  much  to  Saint-Pol's  concern.  Richard  ob- 
served this,  and  suddenly  remembered  that  he 
was  doing  the  man  what  the  man  must  certainly 
believe  to  be  a  cruel  wrong.  *  Mort  de  Dieu ! 
What  am  I  about  ? '  his  heart  cried.  *  I  ought  to 
be  ashamed  to  look  this  fellow  in  the  face,  and 
here  I  am  making  a  brother  of  him.' 

*  Saint-Pol,'  he  said  immediately,  '  I  should  like 
to  speak  with  you.     I  owe  you  that.' 

'  Your  Grace's  servant,'  said  Eudo,  with  a  stiff 
reverence,  *  when  and  where  you  will.' 

*  Follow  me,'  said  Richard,  '  as  soon  as  you 
have  done  with  all  this  foppery.' 

In  about  an  hour's  time  he  was  obeyed.  After 
his  fashion  he  took  a  straight  plunge. 

'  Saint-Pol,'  he  said,  '  I  think  you  know  where 
my  heart  is,  whether  here  or  elsewhere.  I  desire 
you  to  understand  that  in  this  case  I  am  acting 
against  my  own  will  and  judgment.' 

The  frankness  of  this  lordly  creature  was  un- 
mistakable, even  to  Saint-Pol. 

'  Hey,  sire ,'  he  began  spluttering,  honesty 

in  arms  with  rage.     Richard  took  him  up. 


CH.  IV  THE   LEOPARD   STROKED  47 

*  If  you  doubt  that,  as  you  have  my  leave  to 
do,  I  am  ready  to  convince  you.  I  will  ride  with 
you  wherever  you  choose,  and  place  myself  at 
your  discretion.  Subject  to  this,  mind  you, 
that  the  award  is  final.  Once  more  I  will  do 
it.  Will  you  abide  by  that }  Will  you  come 
with  me  ? ' 

Saint- Pol  cursed  his  fate.  Here  he  was,  tied 
to  the  French  girl. 

'  My  lord,'  he  said,  '  I  cannot  obey  you.  My 
duty  is  to  take  Madame  to  Paris.  That  is  my 
master's  command.' 

'Well,' said  Richard,  'then  I  shall  go  alone. 
Once  more  I  shall  go.  I  am  sick  to  death  of  this 
business.' 

'  My  lord  Richard,'  cried  Saint- Pol,  '  I  am  no 
man  to  command  you.  Yet  I  say,  Go.  I  know 
not  what  has  passed  between  your  Grace  and  my 
sister  Jehane ;  but  this  I  know  very  well.  It 
will  be  a  strange  thing'  —  he  laughed,  not  pleas- 
antly—  'a  strange  thing,  I  say,  if  you  cannot 
bend  that  arbiter  to  your  own  way  of  thinking.' 
Richard  looked  at  him  coldly. 

*  If  I  could  do  that,  my  friend,'  he  said,  '  I 
should  not  suffer  arbitration  at  all.' 

'  The  proposition  was  not  mine,  my  lord,'  urged 
Saint-Pol. 

'  It  could  not  be,  sir,'  Richard  said  sharply.  '  I 
proposed  it  myself,  because  I  consider  that  a  lady 
has  the  right  to  dispose  of  her  own  person.  She 
loved  me  once.' 

'  I  believe  that  she  is  yours  at  this  hour,  sire.' 

'  That  is  what  I  propose  to  find  out,'  said  Richard. 
'  Enough.     What  news  have  they  in  Paris  i ' 


48  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Saint-Pol  could  not  help  himself;  he  was 
bursting  with  a  budget  he  had  received  from 
the  south.  '  They  greatly  admire  a  sirvente  of 
Bertran  de  Born's,  sire.' 

'  What  is  the  stuff  of  the  sirvente  ?  * 

'  It  is  a  scandalous  subject,  sire.  He  calls  it 
the  Sirvente 'of  Kings,  and  speaks  much  evil  of 
your  Order.'     Richard  laughed. 

'  I  will  warrant  him  to  do  that  better  than  a;iy 
man  alive,  and  allow  him  some  reason  for  it.  I 
think  I  will  go  to  see  Bertran.' 

'  Ha,  sire,'  said  Saint-Pol  with  meaning,  *  he 
will  tell  you  many  things,  some  good,  and  some 
not  so  good.' 

'  Be  sure  he  will,'  said  Richard.  *  That  is 
Bertran's  way.' 

He  would  trust  no  one  with  his  present  reflec- 
tions, and  seek  no  outside  strength  against  his 
present  temptations.  He  had  always  had  his 
way;  it  had  seemed  to  come  to  him  by  right, 
by  the  droit  de  seigneur,  the  natural  law  which 
puts  the  necks  of  fools  under  the  heels  of  strong 
men.  No  need  to  consider  of  all  that :  he  knew 
that  the  thing  desired  lay  to  his  hand ;  he  could 
make  Jehane  his  again  if  he  would,  and  neither 
King  of  England  nor  King  of  France,  nor  Coun- 
cil of  Westminster  nor  Diet  of  the  Empire  could 
stop  him  —  if  he  would.  But  that,  he  felt  now, 
was  just  what  he  would  not.  To  beat  her  down 
with  torrents  of  love-cries;  to  have  her  trem- 
bling, cowed,  drummed  out  of  her  wits  by  her 
own  heart-beats ;  to  compel,  to  dominate,  to  tame, 
when  her  young  pride  and  young  strength  were 
the  things  most  beautiful  in  her:  never,  by  the 


cu.TV  THE   LEOPARD   STROKED  49 

Cross  of  Christ !  That,  I  suppose,  is  as  near  to 
true  love  as  a  man  can  get,  to  reverence  in  a 
girl  that  which  holds  her  apart.  Richard  got 
so  near  precisely  because  he  was  less  lover  than 
poet.  You  may  doubt,  if  you  choose  (with  Abbot 
Milo),  whether  he  had  love  in  him.  I  doubt. 
But  certainly  he  was  a  poet.  He  saw  Jehane 
all  glorious,  and  gave  thanks  for  the  sight.  He 
felt  to  touch  heaven  when  he  neared  her;  but 
he  did  not  covet  her  possession,  at  the  moment. 
Perhaps  he  felt  that  he  did  possess  her:  it  is  a 
poet's  way.  So  little,  at  any  rate,  did  he  covet, 
that,  having  made  up  his  mind  what  he  would 
do,  he  sent  Gaston  of  Beam  to  Saint-Pol-la- 
Marche  with  a  letter  for  Jehane,  in  which  he 
said :  '  In  two  days  I  shall  see  you  for  the  last 
or  for  all  time,  as  you  will '  —  and  then  pos- 
sessed himself  in  patience  the  appointed  num- 
ber of  hours. 

Gaston  of  Beam,  romantic  figure  in  those  grey 
latitudes,  pale,  black-eyed,  freakishly  bearded, 
dressed  in  bright  green,  rode  his  way  singing, 
announced  himself  to  the  lady  as  the  Child  of 
Love ;  and  when  he  saw  her  kissed  her  foot. 

*  Starry  Wonder  of  the  North,'  he  said,  kneel- 
ing, *  I  bring  fuel  to  your  ineffable  fires.  Our 
King  of  Lovers  and  Lover  among  Kings  is  all 
at  your  feet,  sighing  in  this  paper.'  He  seemed  to 
talk  in  capitals,  with  a  flourish  handed  her  the  scroll. 
He  had  the  gratification  to  see  her  clap  a  hand  to 
her  side  directly  she  touched  it ;  but  no  more.  She 
perused  it  v/ith  unwavering  eyes  in  a  stiff  head. 

'  Farewell,  sir,'  she  said  then ;  *  I  will  prepare 
for  my  lord.' 


50  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

*  And  I,  lady,'  said  Gaston,  '  in  consequence  of 
a  vow  I  have  vowed  my  saint,  will  await  his  com- 
ing in  the  forest,  neither  sleeping  nor  eating  until 
he  has  his  enormous  desires.     Farewell,  lady.' 

He  went  out  backwards,  to  keep  his  promise. 
The  brown  woodland  was  gay  with  him  for  a  day 
and  a  night ;  for  he  sang  nearly  all  the  time  with 
unflagging  spirits.  But  Jehane  spent  part  of  the 
interval  in  the  chapel,  with  her  hands  crossed  upon 
her  fine  bosom.  The  God  in  her  heart  fought 
with  Him  on  the  altar.  She  said  no  prayers ;  but 
when  she  left  the  place  she  sent  a  messenger  for 
Gilles  de  Gurdun,  the  blunt-nosed  Norman  knight 
who  loved  her  so  much  that  he  said  nothing  about 
it. 

This  Gurdun,  pricking  through  the  woods,  came 
upon  Gaston  of  Beam,  dazzling  as  a  spring  tree 
and  singing  like  an  inspired  machine.  He  pulled 
up  at  the  wonderful  sight,  and  scowled.  It  is  the 
proper  Norman  greeting.  Gaston  treated  him  as 
part  of  the  landscape,  like  the  rest  of  it  mournful, 
but  provocative  of  song. 

'  Give  you  good-day,  beau  sire,'  said  Gilles ; 
Gaston  waved  his  hand  and  went  on  singing  at 
the  top  of  his  voice.  Then  Gilles,  who  was 
pressed,  tried  to  pass ;  and  Gaston  folded  his  arms. 

*  Ha,  beef,'  said  he,  '  none  pass  here  but  the 
brave.' 

'  Out,  parrot,'  quoth  Gilles,  and  plunged  through 
the  wood. 

Because  of  Gaston's  vow  there  was  no  blood 
shed  at  the  moment,  but  he  had  hopes  that  he 
might  be  released  in  time.  '  There  goes  a  dead 
man,'  was  therefore  his  comment  before  he 
resumed. 


CH.  IV  THE   LEOPARD   STROKED  51 

But  Jehane,  when  she  heard  the  horse,  ran  out 
to  meet  his  rider.  Her  face  was  aHght.  '  Come 
in,  come  in,'  she  said,  and  took  him  by  the  hand. 
He  followed  her  with  a  beating  heart,  neither 
daring  nor  knowing  how  to  say  anything.  She 
led  him  into  the  little  dark  chapel. 

'  Gilles,  Gilles,'  she  said  panting,  'do  you  love 
me,  Gilles  ? ' 

He  was  hoarse,  could  hardly  speak  for  the 
crack  in  his  throat.  '  O  God,'  he  said  under  his 
breath,  '  O  God,  Jehane,  how  I  love  you  ! ' 

Here,  because  of  a  certain  flicker  in  her  eyes, 
he  made  forward ;  but  she  put  out  her  two  hands 
the  length  of  her  arms  and  fenced  him  off.  *  No, 
no,  Gilles,  not  yet.'  Pain  sharpened  her  voice. 
'  Listen  first  to  me.  I  do  not  love  you  ;  but  I  am 
frightened.  Some  one  is  coming;  you  must  be 
here  to  help  me.  I  give  myself  to  you  —  I  will 
be  yours  —  I  must  —  there  is  no  other  way.' 

She  stopped;  you  could  have  heard  the  thud- 
ding of  her  heart. 

'  Give  then,'  said  Gilles  with  a  croak,  and  took 
her. 

She  felt  herself  engulfed  in  a  sea  of  fire,  but 
set  her  teeth  and  endured  the  burning  of  that 
death.  The  poor  fellow  did  but  kiss  her  once  or 
twice,  and  kissed  no  closer  than  the  Angevin; 
but  the  grace  is  one  that  goes  by  favour.  Gilles, 
nevertheless,  took  primer  seisin  and  was  content. 
Afterwards,  hand  in  hand,  trembling  each,  the 
possessed  and  the  possessing,  they  stood  before 
the  twinkling  lamp  which  hinted  at  the  Son  of 
God,  and  waited  what  must  happen. 

In  about  half  an  hour's  time  Jehane  heard  the 


52  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

long  padding  tread  she  knew  so  well,  and  took 
a  deep  breath.     Next  Gilles  heard  something. 

'  One  comes.  Who  comes  ? '  he  said  whisper- 
ing. 

'  Richard  of  Anjou.     I  need  you  now.' 

'  Do  you  want    me  to ? '    Gilles  honestly 

thought  he  was  to  kill  the  Count.  She  unde- 
ceived him  soon. 

'  To  kill  Richard,  Gilles  ?  Nay,  man,  he  is 
not  for  your  killing.'  She  gave  a  short  laugh, 
not  very  pleasant  for  her  lover  to  hear.  But 
Gilles,  for  all  that,  put  hand  to  hilt.  The  Count 
of  Poictou  stooped  at  the  entry  and  saw  them 
together. 

It  wanted  but  that  to  blow  the  embers.  Some- 
thing tigerish  surged  in  him,  some  gust  of 
jealousy,  some  arrogant  tide  in  the  blood  not 
all  clean.  He  moved  forward  like  a  wind  and 
caught  the  girl  up  in  his  arms,  lifted  her  off 
her  feet,  smothered  her  cry.      *  My  Jehane,  my 

Jehane,  who  dares ?'      Gilles  touched  him 

on  the  shoulder,  and  he  turned  like  lightning  with 
Jehane  held  fast.  His  breath  came  quick  and 
short  through  his  nose:  Gilles  believed  his  last 
hour  at  hand,  but  made  the  most  of  it. 

'  What  now,  dog  ? '  thus  the  lean  Richard. 

'  Set  down  the  lady,  my  lord,'  said  doughty 
Gilles.     ''She  is  promised  to  me.' 

'  Heart  of  God,  what  is  this  ? '  He  held  back 
his  head,  like  a  snake,  that  he  might  see  what 
he  would  strike  at.  'Is  it  true,  girl?'  jehane 
looked  up  from  his  shoulder,  where  she  had 
been  hiding  her  face.  She  could  nqt  speak,  but 
she  nodded. 


CH.  IV  THE   LEOPARD   STROKED  53 

*  It  is  true  ?     Thou  art  promised  ? ' 

*  I  am  promised,  my  lord,'  said  Jehane.  *  Let 
me  go.' 

He  put  her  down  at  once,  between  himself 
and  Gurdun.  Gurdun  went  to  take  up  her  hand 
again,  but  at  a  look  from  Richard  forbore.  The 
Count  went  on  with  his  interrogatories,  outwardly 
as  calm  as  a  field  of  snow. 

'  In  whose  name  art  thou  promised  to  this 
knight,  Jehane  ?     In  thy  brother's  ?  ' 

*  No,  lord.     In  my  own.' 

*  Am  I  nothing  ? '     She  began  to  cry. 

'  Oh,  oh ! '  she  wailed,  '  You  are  everything, 
everything  in  the  world.' 

He  turned  away  from  her,  and  stood  facing 
che  altar,  with  folded  arms,  considering.  Gilles 
had  the  wit  to  be  silent;  the  girl  fought  for 
breath.  Richard,  in  fact,  was  touched  to  the 
heart,  and  capable  of  any  sacrifice  which  could 
seem  the  equivalent  of  this.  He  must  always 
lead,  even  in  magnanimity;  but  it  was  a  better 
thing  than  emulation  moved  him  now.  When 
he  next  turned  with  a  calm,  true  face  to  Jehane 
there  was  not  a  shred  of  the  Angevin  in  him ;  all 
was  burnt  away. 

'  What  is  the  name  of  this  knight,  Jehane  ? ' 
She  told  him,  Gilles  de  Gurdun. 

Then  he  said,  '  Come  hither,  De  Gurdun,'  and 
Gilles  knelt  down  before  the  son  of  his  overlord. 
Jehane  would  have  knelt  to  him  too,  but  that  he 
held  her  by  the  hand  and  would  not  suffer  it. 

'  Now,  Gilles,  listen  to  what  I  shall  tell  you,* 
said  Richard.  '  There  is  no  lady  in  the  world 
more  noble  than  this  one,  and  no  man  living  who 


54  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

means  more  faithfully  by  her  than  I.  I  will  do 
her  will  this  day,  and  that  speedily,  lest  the  devil 
be  served.     Are  you  a  true  man,  Gilles  ? ' 

'  Lord,'  said  Gurdun,  '  I  try  to  be  so.  Your 
father  made  me  a  knight.  I  have  loved  this  lady 
since  she  was  twelve  years  old.' 

*  Are  you  a  man  of  substance,  my  friend  ? ' 

'  We  have  a  good  fief,  my  lord.  My  father 
holds  of  the  Church  of  Rouen,  and  the  Church 
of  the  Duke.  I  serve  with  a  hundred  spears 
where  I  may,  a  routier  if  nothing  better  offer.* 

*  If  I  give  you  Jehane,  what  do  you  give 
me.?' 

'  Thanks,  my  good  lord,  and  faith,  and  long 
service.' 

'  Get  up,  Gilles,'  said  Richard. 

Gilles  kissed  his  knee,  and  rose.  Richard  put 
Jehane's  hand  into  his  and  held  the  two  together. 

'  God  serve  me  as  I  shall  serve  you,  Gilles,  if 
any  harm  come  of  this,'  he  said  shrewdly,  with 
words  that  whistled  in  the  air;  and  as  Gilles 
looked  him  squarely  in  the  face,  Richard  ran  an 
eye  over  him.  Gilles  was  found  honest.  Richard 
kissed  Jehane  on  the  forehead,  and  went  out  with- 
out a  look  back.  At  the  edge  of  the  wood  he 
found  Gaston  of  Beam  sucking  his  fingers. 

'  There  went  by  here,'  said  the  gay  youth,  *  a 
black  knight  with  a  face  of  a  raw  meat  colour, 
and  the  most  villainous  scowl  ever  you  saw.  I 
consider  him  to  be  dead  already.' 

'  I  have  given  him  something  which  should 
cure  him  of  the  scowl  and  justify  his  colour,' 
answered  him  the  Count.  '  Moreover,  I  have 
given  him  the  chance  of  eternal  life.'     Then  with 


A 


CH.  IV  THE   LEOPARD   STROKED  55 

a  cry  — '  Oh,  Gaston,  let  us  get  to  the  South,  see 
the  sun  fleck  the  roads,  smell  the  oranges  !  Let 
us  get  to  the  South,  man  !  It  seems  I  have  enter- 
tained an  angel.  And  now  that  I  have  given  her 
wings,  and  now  that  she  is  gone,  I  know  how 
much  I  love  her.  Speed,  Gaston !  We  will  go 
to  the  South,  see  Bertran,  and  make  some  songs 
of  good  women  and  men  in  want ! ' 

'  Pardieu,'  said  Gaston.  *  I  am  with  you,  Rich- 
ard, for  I  am  in  want.  I  have  eaten  nothing  for 
two  days.' 

So  they  rode  out  of  the  woods  of  Saint- Pol-la- 
Marche,  and  Richard  began  to  sing  songs  of 
Jehane  the  Fair- Girdled ;  never  truly  her  lover 
until  he  might  love  her  no  more. 


CHAPTER  V 

HOW  BERTRAN  DE  BORN  AND    COUNT  RICHARD  STROVE 
IN  A   TENZON 

Day-long  and  night-long  he  sang  of  her,  being 
now  in  the  poetic  mood,  highly  exalted,  out  of 
himself.  The  country  took  tints  of  Jehane,  her 
shape,  her  fine  nobility.  The  thrust  hills  of  the 
Vexin  were  her  breasts;  the  woods,  being  hot 
gold,  her  russet  hair ;  in  still  green  water  he  read 
the  secrets  of  her  eyes ;  in  the  milk  of  October 
dawns  her  calm  brows  had  been  dipped.  The 
level  light  of  the  Beauce,  so  beneficent  yet  so 
austere,  figured  her  soul.  Fair-girdled  was  Tou- 
raine  by  Vienne  and  Loire ;  fair-girdled  Jehane, 
who  wore  virgin  candour  about  her  loins  and 
over  her  heart  a  shield  of  blue  ice.  As  far 
southwards  as  Tours  the  dithyrambic  prevailed ; 
Richard  was  untiring  in  the  hunt  for  analogues. 
Thence  on  to  Poictiers,  where  the  country  (being 
his  own)  was  perhaps  more  familiar ;  indeed,  while 
he  was  climbing  the  grey  peaks  of  Montagrier 
with  his  goal  almost  in  sight,  he  turned  scholiast 
and  glossed  his  former  raptures. 

*  You  are  not  to  tell  me,  Gaston,'  he  declared, 
'  that  my  Jehane  has  been  untrue.  She  was  never 
more  wholly  mine  than  when  she  gave  herself  to 
that  other,  never  loved  me  more  dearly.     Such 

56 


CH.  V  THE    TENZON  AT  AUTAFORT  57 

power  is  given  to  women  to  lead  this  world.  It  is 
the  power  of  the  Word,  who  cut  Himself  off  and 
made  us  His  butchers  in  pure  love.  I  shall  do 
my  part.  I  shall  wed  the  French  girl,  who  in  my 
transports  will  never  guess  that  in  reality  Jehane 
will  be  in  my  arms.'  Tears  filled  his  eyes.  *  For 
we  shall  be  wedded  in  the  sight  of  heaven,'  he 
said  sighing. 

'  Deus  ! '  cried  Gaston  here,  '  Such  marriages 
may  be  more  to  the  taste  of  heaven  than  of  men, 
Richard.     Man  is  a  creature  of  sense.' 

'  He  hath  a  spiritual  part,'  said  Richard,  '  so 
rarely  hidden  that  only  the  thin  fingers  of  a  girl 
may  get  in  to  touch  it.  Then,  being  touched,  he 
knows  that  it  is  quick.  Let  me  alone ;  I  am  not 
all  mud  nor  all  devil.  I  shall  do  my  duty,  marry 
the  French  girl,  and  love  my  golden  Jehane  until 
I  die.' 

'  That  is  the  saying  of  a  poet  and  king  at  once,' 
said  Gaston,  and  really  believed  it. 

So  they  came  at  dusk  to  Autafort,  a  rock 
castle  on  the  confines  of  Perigord,  held  by  Ber- 
tran  de  Born. 

It  looked,  and  was,  a  robber's  hold,  although  it 
had  a  poet  for  castellan.  Its  walls  merely  pro- 
longed the  precipices  on  which  they  were  founded, 
its  towers  but  lifted  the  mountain  spurs  more 
sharply  to  the  sky.  It  dominated  two  watersheds, 
was  accessible  only  on  one  side,  and  then  by  a 
ridgeway;  from  it  the  valley  roads  and  rock- 
strewn  hillsides  could  be  seen  for  many  leagues. 
Long  before  Richard  was  at  the  gate  the  Lord  of 
Autafort  had  had  warning,  and  had  peered  down 
upon  his  suzerain  at  his  clambering.     '  The  crows 


58  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

shall  have  Richard  before  Richard  me,'  said 
Bertran  de  Born  ;  so  he  had  his  bridge  pulled  up 
and  portcullis  let  down,  and  Autafort  showed  a 
bald  face  to  the  newcomers. 

Gaston  grinned.  '  Hospitality  of  Aquitaine ! 
Hospitality  of  your  duchy,  Richard.' 

*  By  my  head,'  said  the  Count,  '  if  I  sleep  under 
the  stars  I  sleep  at  Autafort  this  night.  But  hear 
me  charm  this  plotter.'  He  called  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  *  Ha,  Bertran  !  Come  you  down,  man.' 
The  surrounding  hills  echoed  his  cries,  the  jack- 
daws wheeled  about  the  turrets;  but  presently 
came  one  and  put  his  eye  to  the  grille.  Richard 
saw  him. 

*  Is  that  you,  then,  Bertran  ? '  he  shouted. 
There  was  no  answer,  but  the  spyer  was  heard 
breathing  hard  at  his  vent. 

*  Come  out  of  your  earth,  red  fox,'  Richard  chid 
him.  *  Show  your  grievous  snout  to  the  hills ;  do 
your  snuffling  abroad  to  the  clear  sky.  I  have 
whipped  off  the  hounds ;  my  father  is  not  here. 
Will  you  let  starve  your  liege-lord  ? ' 

At  this  the  bolts  were  drawn,  the  bridge  went 
down  with  a  clatter,  and  Bertran  de  Born  came 
out  —  a  fine  stout  man,  all  in  a  pother,  with  a  red, 
perplexed  face,  angry  eyes,  hair  and  beard  cut  in 
blocks,  a  body  too  big  for  his  clothes  —  a  man  of 
hot  blood,  fumes  and  rages.  Richard  at  sight  of 
him,  this  unquiet  sniffer  of  offences,  this  whirled 
about  with  stratagems,  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  long  and  loud. 

*  O  thou  plotter  of  thine  own  dis-ease !  O 
rider  of  nightmares,  what  harm  can  I  do  thee  ? 
Not,  believe  me,  a  tithe  of  thy  desert.      Come 


CH.  V  THE    TENZON  AT  AUTAFORT  59 

thou  here  straightly,  Master  Bertran,  and  take 
what  I  shall  give  thee.' 

'  By  God,  Lord  Richard '  said  Bertran,  and 

boggled  horribly;  but  the  better  man  waited, 
and  in  the  end  he  came  up  sideways.  Richard 
swung  from  his  horse,  took  his  host  by  the  shoul- 
ders, shook  him  well,  and  kissed  him  on  jDoth 
cheeks.  '  Spinner  of  mischief,  red  robber,  singer 
of  the  thoughts  of  God ! '  he  said,  '  I  swear  I  love 
thee  through  it  all,  Bertran,  though  I  should,  do 
better  to  wring  thy  neck.  Now  give  us  food  and 
drink  and  clean  beds,  for  Gaston  at  least  is  a 
dead  man  without  them.  Afterwards  we  will  sing 
songs.' 

'  Come  in,  come  in,  Richard,'  said  Bertran  de 
Born. 

For  a  day  or  two  Richard  was  bathed  in  golden 
calm,  hugging  his  darling  thought,  full  of  Jehane, 
fearful  to  share  her.  Often  he  remembered  it  in 
later  life ;  it  held  a  place  and  commanded  a  mood 
which  no  hour  of  his  wildest  possession  could  out- 
vie. The  mountain  air,  still,  but  latently  nimble, 
the  great  mountains  themselves  dreaming  in  the 
sunlight,  the  sailing  birds,  hinted  a  peace  to  his 
soul  whither  his  last  conquest  of  his  baser  part 
assured  him  he  might  soar.  Now  he  could  guess 
(thought  he)  that  quality  in  love  which  it  borrows 
from  God  and  shares  with  the  angels,  ministers 
of  God,  the  steady  burning  of  a  flame  keen  and 
hard.  So  on  an  afternoon  of  weather  serene 
beyond  all  belief  of  the  North,  mild,  tired,  softly 
radiant,  still  as  a  summer  noon ;  as  he  sat  with 
Bertran  in  a  courtyard  where  were  lemon-trees 


6o  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  ,  bk.  X 

aAd  a  fountain,  and  above  the  old  white  walls,  and 
above  the  strutting  pigeons,  a  square  of  blue,  he 
began  to  speak  of  his  affairs,  of  what  he  had  done 
and  of  what  was  to  do. 

Bertran's  was  a  grudging  spirit :  you  shall  hear 
the  Abbot  Milo  upon  that  matter  anon,  than 
whom  there  are  few  better  qualified  to  speak. 
He  grudged  Richard  everything  —  his  beauty,  his 
kr^it  and  graceful  body,  his  brain  like  a  sword,  his 
past  exploits,  his  present  content.  What  it  was 
contented  him  he  knew  not  altogether,  though  a 
letter  from  Saint-Pol  had  in  part  advised  him; 
but  he  was  sure  he  had  wherewithal  to  discontent 
him.  '  Foh !  a  juicy  orange  indeed,'  he  said  to 
himself,  '  but  I  can  wring  him  dry.*  If  Richard 
hugged  one  thought,  Bertran  hugged  another,  and 
took  it  to  bed  with  him  o'  nights.  Now,  there 
fore,  when  Richard  spoke  of  Jehane,  Bertran  said 
nothing,  waiting  bis  time ;  but  when  he  went  on 
to  Madame  Alois  and  his  duty  (which  really  col- 
oured all  the  former  thought)  Bertran  made  a 
grimace. 

*  Rascal,*  says  Richard,  shamming  rough,  '  why 
do  you  make  faces  at  me  ? ' 

Bertran  began  jerking  about  like  the  lid  of  a 
boiling  pot,  and  presently  sends  a  boy  for  his 
viol.  At  this,  when  it  came,  he  snatched,  and 
set  to  plucking  a  chord  here  and  a  chord  there, 
grinning  fearfully  all  the  time. 

*  A  tenzon  !  A  tenzon  !  beau  sire  !  *  cries  he. 
*  Now  a  tenzon  between  you  and  me ! ' 

*  Let  it  be  so,'  says  Richard ;  '  have  at  you.  I 
sing  of  the  calm  day,  of  the  sweets  of  true  love.' 

*  Accorded,'  says  the  other,     *  And  I  sing  of 


tH.  V  THE   TENZON  AT  AUTAFORT  6i 

the  sours  of  false  love.     Do  you  set  the  mode, 
prince  of  blood  royal  as  you  are/ 

Richard  took  the  viol  without  after-thought  and 
struck  a  few  chords.  A  great  tenderness  was  in 
his  heart ;  he  saw  Duty  and  himself  hand  in  hand 
walking  a  long  road  by  night;  two  large  stars 
beaconed  the  way;  these  were  J ehane's  eyes.  A 
watcher  or  two  stole  into  the  upper  gallery,  leaned 
on  the  parapet  and  listened,  for  both  men  were 
renowned  singers.  Richard  began  to  sing  of 
green-eyed  Jehane,  who  wore  the  gold  girdle, 
whose  hair  was  red  gold.     His  song  was  — 

Li  dous  consire 

Quem  don'  Amors  soven  — 

but  I  English  it  thus  — 

*  That  gentle  thought  which  love  will  give 
sometimes  is  like  a  plait  of  silk  and  gold,  and  so 
is  this  song  of  mine  to  be ;  wherein  you  shall  find 
a  red  deep  cry  which  cometh  from  the  heart,  and 
a  thin  blue  cry  which  is  the  cry  of  what  is  virgin 
in  my  soul,  and  a  golden  long  cry,  the  cry  of  the 
King,  and  a  cry  clear  as  crystal  and  colder  than  a 
white  moon :  and  that  is  the  cry  of  Jehane.' 

Bertran,  trembling,  snatched  at  the  viol.  '  Mine 
to  sing,  Richard,  mine  to  sing !  Ha,  love  me  no 
more ! ' 

Cantar  d'  Amors  non  voilh, 
he  began  — 

*  Your  strands  are  warped  and  will  not  accord, 
for  love  will  warp  any  song.  It  turneth  the  heart 
of  a  man  black,  and  the  soul  it  eateth  up.  At 
fourteen  goes  the  virgin  first  a-wallowing;  and 
soon  the  King  croaks  like  a  hog.     A  plait !     Love 


62  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

is  a  fetter  of  hot  iron ;  so  my  song  shall  be  iron- 
cruel  like  the  bidding  of  Jehane.  Say  now,  shall  I 
set  the  song  ?  The  love-cry  is  the  cry  of  a  man 
who  drags  his  way  with  his  side  torn ;  and  the 
colour  of  it  is  dry  red,  like  old  blood;  and  the 
sound  thereof  maketh  the  hearers  ache,  so  it 
quavers  and  shrills.  For  it  cries  only  two  things: 
sorrow  and  shame.' 

He  misconceived  his  adversary  who  thought  to 
quell  him  by  such  vapours.  Richard  took  the 
viol. 

*  Bertran,  it  is  well  seen  that  thou  art  pinched 
and  have  a  torn  side ;  but  ask  of  thy  itching 
fingers  who  graved  the  wound.  Dry  thou  art, 
Bertran,  for  thy  trough  is  dry ;  the  husks  prick 
thy  gums,  but  there  is  no  other  meat.  Well  may 
the  hearers'  ears  go  aching;  for  thy  cry,  man, 
proceedeth  from  thy  aching  belly.  But  now  I  will 
set  the  song  again,  and  tell  thee  of  a  lady  girdled 
with  fine  gold.  Beneath  the  girdle  beats  a  red 
heart ;  but  her  spirit  is  like  a  spire  of  blue  smoke, 
that  comes  from  a  fire,  indeed,  but  strains  up  to 
heaven.  Warmed  by  that  fire,  like  that  smoke  I 
fly  up ;  and  so  I  lie  among  the  stars  with  Jehane.' 

Bertran's  jaw  was  at  work,  mashing  his  tongue. 
'Ah,  Richard,  is  it  so  with  thee?  Wait  now 
while  I  strike  a  blow.'     He  made  the  viol  scream. 

*  What  if  I  twist  the  song  awry,  and  give  thee 
good  cause  to  limp  the  sorrowful  way  ?  What  if 
for  my  aching  belly  I  give  thee  an  aching  heart  ? 
Eh,  if  my  fingers  scratch  my  side,  there  are  worse 
talons  at  thine.  Watch  for  the  Lion's  claw, 
Richard,  which  tears  not  flesh  but  honour,  and 
gives  more  pain  than  any  knife.     Pain !     He  is 


CH.  V  THE    TENZON  AT  AUTAFORT  (i^ 

King  of  Pain !  Mend  that,  then  face  sorrow  and 
shame.' 

Ending  with  a  snap,  he  grinned  more  know- 
ledge out  of  his  red  eyes  than  he  pronounced 
with  his  mouth.  His  terrible  excitement,  the 
labour  and  sweat  of  it,  set  Richard's  brows  knit- 
ting. He  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  viol 
slowly ;  and  his  eyes  were  cold  on  Bertran,  and 
never  off  him  for  a  moment  as  he  sang  to  this 
enemy,  and  judged  him  while  he  sang.  The  note 
was  changed. 

'  The  Lion  is  a  royal  beast,  a  king,  whose  son 
am  I.  We  maul  not  each  other  in  Anjou,  save 
when  the  jackal  from  the  South  cometh  snarling 
between.  Then,  when  we  see  the  unclean  beast, 
saith  one,  "  Faugh  !  is  this  your  friend  ?  "  and  the 
other, "  Thou  dost  ill  to  say  so."  Then  the  blood 
may  flow  and  the  jackal  get  a  meal.  But  here 
there  is  none  to  come  licking  blood.  The  prize 
is  the  White  Roe  of  France,  fed  on  the  French 
lilies,  and  now  in  safe  harbour.  She  shall  lie  by 
the  Leopard,  and  the  Lion  rule  the  forest  in 
peace  because  of  the  peace  about  him ;  and  like 
a  harvest  moon  above  us,  clear  of  the  trees,  will 
be  Jehane.' 

'  Listen,  Richard,  I  will  be  clearer  yet,*  came 
from  between  Bertran's  teeth.  He  fairly  ground 
them  together.  Having  the  viol,  he  struck  but 
one  note  upon  it,  with  such  rudeness  that  the 
string  broke.  He  threw  the  thing  away  and  sang 
without  it,  leaning  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and 
craning  forward  that  he  might  spit  the  words. 

'  This  is  the  bite  of  the  song :  she  is  forsworn. 
Harbour }     She  kept  harbour  too  long ;    she  is 


64  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  1 

mangled,  she  is  torn.  Touch  not  the  Lion's  prey, 
Leopard.  You  go  hunting  too  late — for  all  but 
sorrow  and  shame.' 

Richard  stretched  not  his  hand  again ;  his  jaw 
dropped  and  most  of  the  strong  colour  died  down 
in  his  face.  Turned  to  stone,  stiff  and  immov- 
able, he  sat  staring  at  the  singer,  while  Bertran, 
biting  his  lip,  still  grinning  and  twitching  with 
his  late  effort,  watched  him. 

*  Give  me  the  truth,  thou.'  His  voice  was  like 
an  old  man's,  hollow. 

'  As  God  is  in  heaven  that  is  the  truth,  Richard,* 
said  Bertran  de  Born. 

The  Count's  head  went  up,  as  when  a  hound 
yelps  to  the  sky:  laughter  ensued,  barking 
laughter  —  not  mirth,  not  grief  disguised,  but 
mockery,  the  worst  of  all.  One  on  the  gallery 
nudged  his  fellow;  that  other  shrugged  him  off. 
Richard  stretched  his  long  arms,  his  clenched  fists 
to  the  dumb  sky.  '  Have  I  bent  the  knee  to  good 
issues  or  not  ?  Have  I  abased  my  head  ?  O  clement 
prince!  O  judge  in  Israel!  O  father  of  kings! 
Hear  now  a  parable  of  the  Prodigal:  Father,  I 
have  sinned  against  heaven  and  before  thee,  and 
thou  art  no  more  worthy  to  be  called  my  father. 
O  glutton  !  O  filching  dog ! ' 

'  By  the  torch  of  the  Gospel,  Count  Richard, 
what  I  sang  is  true,'  said  Bertran,  still  tensely 
grinning,  and  now  also  wringing  at  his  hang-nails. 
Richard,  checked  by  the  voice,  turned  blazing  upon 
him. 

'  Why,  thou  school-boy  rhymester,  that  is  the 
only  merit  thou  hast,  and  that  not  thine  own ! 
Thy  japes  are  nought,  thy  tragics  the  mewing  of 


CH.  V  THE   TENZON  AT  AUTAFORT  65 

cats ;  but  thy  news,  fellow,  thy  news  is  too  rich 
matter  for  thy  sewer  of  a  throat.  Tragic  ?  No, 
it  is  worse :  it  is  comic,  O  heaven !  Heed  you 
now '  In  his  bitter  shame  he  began  panto- 
miming with  his  fingers :  —  *  Here  are  two  persons, 
father  by  the  Grace  of  God,  son  by  the  grace  of 
the  father.  Saith  father,  "  Son,  thou  art  sprung 
from  kings ;  take  this  woman  that  is  sprung  from 
kings,  for  I  have  no  further  use  for  her."  Anon 
Cometh  a  white  rag  thinly  from  the  inner  tent  — 
mark  her  provenance.  Son  kneeleth  down.  "  Wilt 
thou  have  my  son,  cony .? "  saith  father.  "  Yea, 
dear  heart,"  saith  she.  "  'Tis  my  counterpart,  mark 
you,"  saith  father.  "  Better  than  nothing  at  all," 
saith  she.  Benevolent  father,  supple-kneed  son, 
convenient  lady.  Here  is  agreement.  And  thus 
it  ends.'  Again  he  laughed  outright  at  the  steel- 
blue  face  of  the  sky,  then  jumped  in  a  flash  from 
his  seat  to  the  throat  of  Bertran.  Bertran  tumbled 
backwards  with  a  strangled  cry,  and  Richard 
pegged  him  to  the  ground. 

'  Thou  yapping  cur,  Bertran,*  he  grated,  '  thou 
sick  dog  of  my  kennel,  if  this  snarl  of  thine  goes 
true  thou  hast  done  a  service  to  me  and  mine  thou 
knowest  not  of.  There  is  little  to  do  before  I  am 
the  richest  man  in  Christendom.  Why,  dull  rogue, 
thou  hast  set  me  free  ! '  He  looked  up  exulting 
from  his  work  at  the  man's  throat  to  shout  this 
word.  '  But  if  it  is  not  true,  Bertran '  —  he  shook 
him  like  a  rat  — '  if  it  is  not  true,  I  return,  O 
Bertran,  and  tear  this  false  gullet  out  of  its  case, 
and  with  thy  speckled  heart  feed  the  crows  of 
Perigord.'  Bertran  had  foam  on  his  lips,  but 
Richard  showed  him  no  mercy.     '  As  it  is,  Ber- 


66  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

tran,'  he  went  on  with  his  teeth  on  edge,  '  I  am 
minded  to  finish  thee.  But  that  I  need  something 
from  thee  I  think  I  should  do  it.  Tell  me  now 
whence  came  thy  news.  Tell  me,  Bertran,  or 
thou  art  in  hell  in  a  moment.' 

He  had  to  let  him  up  to  win  from  him  after 
a  time  that  his  informant  was  the  Count  of  Saint- 
Pol.  Little  matter  that  this  was  untrue,  the  bring- 
ing in  of  his  name  set  wild  alarums  clanging  in 
Richard's  head.  It  was  only  too  likely  to  have 
been  Saint-Pol's  doing ;  there  was  obvious  reason ; 
but  by  the  same  token  Saint-Pol  might  be  a  liar. 
He  saw  that  he  must  by  all  means  find  Saint-Pol, 
and  find  him  at  once.  He  began  to  shout  for 
Gaston.  '  To  horse,  to  horse,  Gaston  ! '  The 
court  rang  with  his  voice ;  to  the  clamour  he  made, 
which  might  betoken  murder,  arson,  pillage,  or 
the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost,  out  came  the 
vassals  in  a  swarm.  '  To  horse,  to  horse,  Bearnais  ! 
Where  out  of  hell  is  Gaston  of  Beam  ? '  The 
devil  of  Anjou  was  loose  in  Autafort  that  day. 

Gaston  came  delicately  last,  drawing  his  beard 
through  his  fist,  to  see  Bertran  de  Born  lie  help- 
less in  a  lemon-bush  hard  by  the  wall.  Richard, 
quite  beyond  himself,  exploded  with  his  story,  and 
so  was  sobered.  While  Gaston  made  his  com- 
ments, he,  instead  of  listening,  made  comments  of 
his  own. 

'  Dear  Lord  Richard,'  said  Gaston  reasonably, 
*if  you  do  not  know  Bertran  by  this  time  it  is  a 
strange  thing  and  a  pitiful  thing.  For  it  shows 
you  without  any  wit.  He  was  appointed,  it  would 
seem,  to  be  the  thorn  in  your  rosebed  of  Anjou. 
What  has  he  done  since  he  was  let  be  made  but 


CH.  V  THE   TENZON  AT  AUTAFORT  67 

set  you  all  by  the  ears?  What  did  he  do  by  the 
young  King  but  miserably  ?  What  by  Geoffrey  ? 
Is  there  a  man  in  the  world  he  hates  more  than 
the  old  King  ?  Yes,  there  is  one :  you.  Take 
a  token.  The  last  time  they  two  met  was  in  this 
very  castle;  and  then  the  King  your  father  kissed 
him,  and  forgiving  him  Henry's  death,  gave  him 
back  his  Autafort;  and  Bertran  too  gave  a  kiss, 
that  love  might  abound.  Judas,  Judas !  And 
what  did  Judas  next.?  Dear  Richard,  let  us  think 
awhile,  but  not  here.  Let  us  go  to  Limoges  and 
think  with  the  Viscount.  But  let  us  by  all  means 
kill  Bertran  de  Born  first.' 

During  this  speech,  which  had  much  to  recom- 
mend it,  Richard,  as  I  have  told  you,  did  his  think- 
ing by  himself.  He  always  cooled  as  suddenly 
as  he  boiled  over;  and  now,  warily  regarding 
the  right  hand  and  the  left  of  this  monstrous 
fable,  he  saw  that,  though  Saint-Pol  might  have 
played  fox  in  it,  another  must  have  played  goat. 
He  could  not  fail  to  remember  Louviers,  and 
certain  horrid  mysteries  which  had  offended  him 
then  with  only  vague  disgust,  as  for  matters  which 
were  outside  his  own  care.  Now  they  all  took 
shape  satyric,  like  hideous  heads  thrust  out  of  the 
dark  to  loll  their  tongues  at  him.  To  the  shock 
of  his  first  dismay  succeeded  the  onset  of  rage, 
white  and  cold  and  deadly  as  a  night  frost.  Eh, 
but  he  would  meet  his  teeth  in  some  throat !  But 
he  would  go  slowly  to  work,  clear  the  ground  and 
stalk  his  prey.  The  leopard  devises  creeping 
death.  He  made  up  his  mind.  Gaston  he  sent 
to  the  South,  to  Angoulesme,  to  Perigord,  to 
Auvergne,  to  Cahors.     The  horn  must  be  heard 


6S  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

at  the  head  of  every  brown  valley,  the  armed  men 
shadow  every  white  road.  He  himself  went  to 
his  city  of  Poictiers. 

Bertran  de  Born  saw  him  go,  and  rubbed  his 
hair  till  it  stood  like  reeds  shaken  by  the  wind. 
Whether  he  loved  rnischief  or  not  (and  some  say 
he  breathed  it) ;  whether  he  had  a  grudge  against 
Anjou  not  yet  assuaged ;  whether  he  was  in  league 
with  Prince  John,  or  had  indeed  thought  to  do 
Prince  Richard  a  service,  let  philosophers,  experts 
of  mankind,  determine.  If  he  had  a  turn  for 
dramatics  he  had  certainly  indulged  it  now,  and 
given  himself  strong  meat  for  a  new  Sirvente  of 
Kings.  At  least  he  was  very  busy  after  Richard's 
departure,  himself  preparing  for  a  long  journey  to 
the  South. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FRUITS  OF  THE  TENZON :  THE  BACK  OF  SAINT-POL,  AND 
THE  FRONT  OF  MONTFERRAT 

Count  Richard  found  time,  while  he  was  at 
Poictiers  awaiting  the  Aquitanian  levies,  to  write 
six  letters  to  Jehane  Saint-Pol.  Of  these  some, 
with  their  bearers,  fell  by  the  wayside.  As  luck 
would  have  it,  Jehane  received  but  two,  the  first 
and  the  last.  The  first  said :  '  I  am  in  the  way  of 
liberty,  but  by  a  red  road.  Have  hopes  of  me.* 
Jehane  was  long  in  answering.  One  may  picture 
the  poor  soul  taking  the  dear  and  wicked  thing 
into  the  little  chapel,  laying  it  on  the  altar-stone 
warm  from  her  vest,  restoring  it  after  office  done 
to  that  haven  whence  she  must  banish  its  writer. 
Fortified,  she  replied  with,  '  Alas,  my  lord,  the 
way  of  liberty  leads  not  to  me ;  nor  can  I  serve 
you  otherwise  than  in  bonds.  I  pray  you,  make 
my  yoke  no  heavier.  —  Your  servant,  in  little  ease, 
Jehane.'  This  wistful  unhappy  letter  gave  him 
heartache ;  he  could  scarcely  keep  himself  at 
home.  Yet  he  must,  being  as  yet  sure  of  nothing. 
He  replied  in  a  second  and  third,  a  fourth  and  a 
fifth  letter,  which  never  reached  her.  The  last 
was  sent  when  he  had  begun  what  he  thought 
fit  to  do  at  Tours,  saying,  '  I  make  war,  but  the 
cause  is  righteous.  Never  misjudge  me,  Jehane.' 
There  were  many  reasons  why  she  should  not 
answer  this. 

69 


7*/  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.c 

Returning  to  his  deeds  at  Poictlers,  I  pick  up 
the  story  from  the  Abbot  Milo,  whom  he  found 
there.  The  Count,  you  may  judge,  kept  his  own 
counsel.  Milo  was  his  confessor,  but  at  this  time 
Richard  was  not  in  a  confessing  humour ;  there- 
fore Milo  had  to  gather  scandal  as  he  could. 
There  was  very  little  difficulty  about  this.  *  In 
the  city  of  Tours,'  he  writes,  *in  those  middle 
days  of  Advent,  it  appears  that  rumour,  still 
gadding,  was  adrift  with  names  almost  too  high 
for  the  writing.  There  were  many  there  who  had 
no  business ;  the  Count  of  Blois,  for  instance,  the 
Baron  of  Chateaudun,  the  fighting  Bishop  of 
Durham  (I  fear,  a  hireling  shepherd),  Geoffrey 
Talebot,  Hugh  of  Saint-Circ.  One  reason  of  this 
was  that  King  Henry  was  in  England,  not  yet 
come  to  an  agreement  with  the  French  King,  nor 
likely  to  it  if  what  we  heard  was  true,  yea,  or  a 
tenth  part  of  it.  God  forbid  that  I  should  write 
what  these  ears  heard ;  but  this  I  will  say.  It 
was  I  who  told  the  shocking  tale  to  my  lord 
Richard,  adding  also  this  hint,  that  his  former 
friend  was  involved  in  it,  Eudo  Count  of  Saint- 
Pol.  If  you  will  believe  me,  not  the  tale  of  in- 
iquity moved  him ;  but  he  received  it  with  shut 
mouth,  and  eyes  fixed  upon  mine.  But  at  the 
name  of  the  Count  of  Saint- Pol  he  took  a  breath, 
at  the  mention  of  his  part  in  the  business  he  took 
a  deep  breath,  and  when  he  heard  that  this  man 
was  yet  at  Tours,  he  got  up  from  his  chair  and 
struck  the  table  with  his  closed  fist.  Knowing 
him  as  I  did,  I  considered  that  the  weather 
looked  black  for  Saint- Pol. 

*  Next   day  Count    Richard   moved   his   hosts 


CH.  VI  FRUITS  OF  THE    TENZON  yi 

out  of  the  fields  by  Poictiers  to  the  very  bor- 
ders of  his  country,  and  calling  a  halt  at  Saint- 
Gilles  and  making  snug  against  alarms,  himself, 
with  my  lord  Gaston  of  Beam,  with  the  Dau- 
phin of  Auvergne  also,  and  the  Viscount  of 
Beziers,  crossed  the  march  into  Touraine,  and 
so  came  to  Tours  about  a  week  before  Christ- 
mas, the  weather  being  bright  and  frosty.' 

It  seems  he  did  not  take  the  abbot  with  him, 
for  the  rest  of  the  good  man's  record  is  full  of 
morality,  a  certain  sign  that  facts  failed  him. 
There  may  have  been  reasons;  at  any  rate  the 
Count  went  into  Tours  in  a  trenchant  humour, 
with  ears  keen  and  wide  for  all  shreds  of  report. 
And  he  got  enough  and  to  spare.  In  the  wet 
market-place,  on  the  flags  of  the  great  church- 
yard, by  the  pillars  of  the  nave,  in  the  hall,  in 
the  chambers,  in  the  inn-galleries ;  wherever  men 
met  or  women  whispered  in  each  other's  necks, 
there  flew  the  names  of  Alois,  King  Philip's  sister, 
and  of  King  Henry,  Count  Richard's  father.  Rich- 
ard made  short  work,  short  and  dry.  It  was  in  mid- 
hall  in  the  Bishop's  palace,  one  day  after  dinner, 
that  he  met  and  stopped  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol. 

'  What  now,  beau  sire  ? '  says  the  Count,  out 
of  breath.  Richard's  eyes  were  alight.  *  This,' 
says  he,  'that  you  lie  in  your  throat.' 

Count  Eudo  looked  about  him,  and  everywhere 
saw  the  faces  of  men  risen  from  the  board  intent 
on  him.  '  Strange  words,  beau  sire,'  says  he,  very 
white.  Richard  raised  his  voice  till  the  metal 
rang  in  it. 

*  But  not  strange  doing,  I  think,  on  your  part. 
This  has  been  going  on,  how  long  ?  * 


72  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Saint-Pol  was  stung.  *  Ah,  it  becomes  you 
very  ill  to  reproach  me,  my  lord.' 

*  I  think  it  becomes  me  excellently,'  said  Rich- 
ard. '  You  have  lied  for  a  vile  purpose ;  you 
have  disgraced  your  name.  You  seek  to  drive 
me  by  slander  whither  I  may  not  go  in  honour. 
You  lie  like  a  broker.  You  are  a  shameful 
liar.' 

No  man  could  stand  this  from  another,  how- 
ever great  that  other.;  and  Saint- Pol  was  not 
a  coward.  He  looked  up  at  his  adversary,  still 
white,  but  steady. 

*  How  then  ?  '  he  asked  him,  *  how  then  if  I 
lie  not.  Count  of  Poictou.f*  And  how  if  you 
know  that  I  lie  not  ? ' 

'  Then,'  said  Richard,  *  you  use  insult,  which 
is  worse.' 

Saint-Pol  took  off  his  glove  of  mail  and  flung 
it  with  a  clatter  on  the  floor. 

*  Since  it  has  come  to  this,  my  lord '  Rich- 
ard spiked  the  glove  with  his  sword,  tossed  it  to 
the  hammer-beams  of  the  roof,  and  caught  it  as 
it  fell. 

'  It  shall  come  nearer.  Count,  I  take  it.'  Thus 
he  finished  the  other's  phrase,  then  stalked  out 
of  the  Bishop's  house.  It  was  then  and  there 
that  he  wrote  to  Jehane  that  sixth  letter,  which 
she  received :  '  I  make  war,  but  the  cause  is 
righteous.     Never  misjudge  me,  Jehane.' 

The  end  of  it  was  a  combat  a  outrance  in  the 
meads  by  the  Loire,  with  all  Tours  on  the  walls 
to  behold  it.  Richard  was  quite  frank  about  the 
part  he  proposed  to  himself.  '  The  man  must 
die,'  he  told  the  Dauphin  of  Auvergne,  *even 


CH.VI  FRUITS   OF  THE    TENZON  73 

though  he  have  spoken  the  truth.  As  to  that  I 
am  not  sure,  I  am  not  yet  informed.  But  he  is 
not  fit  to  live  on  any  ground.  By  these  slanders 
of  his  he  has  disgraced  the  name  and  outraged 
the  honour  of  the  most  lovely  lady  in  the  world, 
whose  truest  misfortune  is  to  be  his  sister;  by 
the  same  token  I  must  punish  him  for  the  dignity 
of  the  lady  I  am  (at  present)  designed  to  wed. 
She  is  always  the  daughter  of  his  liege-lord. 
What!' — he  threw  his  head  up — 'Is  not  a  daugh- 
ter of  France  worth  a  broken  back  ? ' 

*  Tu-dieu,  yes,'  says  the  Dauphin ;  *  but  it  is  a 
stoutish  back,  Richard.  It  is  a  back  which  ranks 
high.  Kings  clap  it  familiarly.  Conrad  of  Mont- 
ferrat  calls  it  a  cousin's  back.  The  Emperor  has 
embraced  it  at  an  Easter  fair.' 

'  I  would  as  soon  break  Conrad's  back  as  his, 
Dauphin,  believe  me,'  Richard  replied;  'but 
Conrad  has  said  nothing.  And  there  is  another 
reason.' 

'  I  have  thought  myself  of  a  reason  against  it,* 
the  Dauphin  said  quickly,  yet  with  a  flutter  of 
timidity.     '  This  man's  name  is  Saint-Pol.' 

Richard  grew  bleak  in  a  moment.  '  That,'  he 
said,  '  is  why  I  shall  kill  him.  He  seeks  to  drive 
us  to  marriage.  Injurious  beast !  His  name  is 
Pandarus.'  Then  he  left  the  Dauphin  and  shut 
himself  up  until  the  day  of  battle. 

They  had  formed  lists  in  the  Loire  meads :  a 
red  pavilion  with  leopards  upon  it  for  the  Count 
of  Poictou,  a  blue  pavilion  streaked  with  basilisks 
in  silver  for  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol.  The  crowd 
was  very  great,  for  the  city  was  full  of  people ; 
in  the  tribune  the  King  of  England's  throne  was 


74  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

left  empty  save  for  a  drawn  sword ;  but  one  sat 
beside  it  as  arbiter  for  the  day  of  life  and  death, 
and  that  was  Prince  John,  Richard's  brother,  by 
Richard  summoned  from  Paris,  and  most  un- 
wilHngly  there.  Bishop  Hugh  of  Durham  sat 
next  him,  and  marvelled  to  see  the  sweat  glisten 
on  his  forehead  on  a  day  when  all  the  world  else 
felt  the  north  wind  to  their  bones.  '  Are  you 
suffering,  dear  lord  ?'  *  Eh,  Bishop  Hugh,  Bishop 
Hugh,  this  is  a  mad  day  for  me ! '  'By  God,' 
thought  Hugh  of  Durham,  'and  so  it  might 
prove,  my  man!' 

They  blew  trumpets ;  and  at  the  second  sound- 
ing Saint-Pol,  the  challenger,  rode  out  on  a  big 
grey  horse,  himself  in  a  hauberk  of  chain  mail  with 
a  coif  of  the  same,  and  a  casque  wherein  three 
grey  heron's  feathers.  This  was  the  badge  of  the 
house :  Jehane  wore  heron's  feathers.  He  had  a 
blue  surcoat  and  blue  housings  for  his  horse. 
Behind  him,  esquire  of  honour,  rode  the  young 
Amadeus  of  Savoy,  carrying  his  banner,  a  white 
basilisk  on  a  blue  field.  Saint-Pol  was  a  burly  man, 
bearing  his  honours  squarely  on  breast  and  back. 

They  sounded  for  the  Count  of  Poictou,  who 
came  presently  out  of  his  tent  and  lightly  swung 
himself  into  the  saddle  —  a  feat  open  to  very  few 
men  armed  in  mail.  As  he  came  cantering  down 
the  long  lists  no  man  could  fail  to  mark  the  size 
and  splendid  ease  he  had ;  but  some  said,  *  He  is 
younger  by  five  years  than  Saint-Pol,  and  not  so 
stout  a  man.'  He  had  a  red  plume  above  his 
leopard  crest,  a  white  surcoat  over  his  hauberk, 
with  three  red  leopards  upon  it.  His  shield  was 
of  the  same  blazon,  so  also  the  housings  of  his 


CH.  VI  FRUITS  OF  THE   TENZON  75 

horse.  The  Dauphin  of  Auvergne  carried  his 
banner.  The  two  men  came  together,  saluted 
with  ceremony,  then  turned  with  spears  uplift 
to  the  tribune,  the  throned  sword,  the  sweating 
prince  beside  it. 

This  one  now  rose  up  and  caught  at  his  chair, 
to  give  the  signal.  *  Oh,  Richard  of  Anjou,  do 
thou  on  the  body  of  Saint- Pol  what  thy  faith 
requires  of  thee ;  and  do  thou,  Eudo,  uphold  the 
right  thou  hast,  in  the  name  of  God  in  Trinity 
and  of  our  Lady.'  The  Bishop  of  Tours  blessed 
them  both  and  the  issue,  they  wheeled  apart,  and 
the  battle  began.  It  was  short,  three  careers  long. 
At  the  first  shock  Richard  unhorsed  his  man ;  at 
the  second  he  unhelmed  him  with  a  deep  flesh- 
furrow  in  the  cheek ;  at  the  third  he  drove  down 
horse  and  man  together  and  broke  the  Count's 
back.     Saint-Pol  never  moved  again. 

The  moment  it  was  over,  in  the  silence  of  all, 
Prince  John  came  down  from  the  tribune  and  fell 
upon  Richard's  neck.  *  Oh,  dearest  brother,'  cried 
he,  *  what  should  I  have  done  if  the  worst  had 
befallen  you  ?     I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it' 

*  Oh,  brother,'  Richard  said  very  quietly,  '  I 
think  you  would  have  borne  it  very  well.  You 
would  have  married  Madame  Alois,  and  paid  for 
a  mass  or  two  for  me  out  of  the  dowry.' 

This  raking  shot  was  heard  by  everybody. 
John  grew  red  as  fire.  '  Why,  what  do  you 
mean,  Richard  ? '  he  stammered. 

And  Richard,  *  Are  my  words  so  encumbered  t 
Think  them  over,  get  them  by  heart.  So  doing, 
be  pleased  to  ride  with  me  to  Paris.'  At  this  the 
colour  left  John's  face. 


76  RICHARD   YEA~AND-NAY  bk.i 

*  Ah !  To  Paris  ? '  He  looked  as  if  )he  saw 
death  under  a  bush. 

*  That  is  where  we  must  go/  said  Richard,  *so 
soon  as  we  have  prayed  for  that  poor  bhnd  worm 
on  the  ground,  who  now  haply  sees  wherein  he 
has  offended.' 

*  Conrad  of  Montferrat,  cousin  of  this  dead,  is 
there,  Richard,'  said  the  other  with  intention;  but 
Richard  laughed. 

'  In  a  very  good  hour  we  shall  find  him.  I 
have  to  give  him  news  of  his  cousin  Saint-Pol. 
What  is  he  there  for?' 

*  It  is  in  the  matter  of  the  kingdom  of  Jeru- 
salem. He  seeks  Sibylla  and  that  crown,  and  is 
like  to  get  them.' 

■  *  I  think  not,  John,  I  think  not.  We  will  fill 
his  head  with  other  thoughts ;  we  will  set  it  want- 
ing mine.     Your  chance  is  a  fair  one  yet,  brother.' 

Prince  John  laughed,  but  not  comfortably. 
*  Your  tongue  bites,  Richard.' 

'  Pooh,'  says  Richard, '  what  else  are  you  worth  ? 
I  save  my  teeth ' ;  and  went  his  ways. 

In  Paris  Richard  repaired  to  the  tower  of  his 
kinsman  the  Count  of  Angoulesme,  but  his  brother 
to  the  Abbey  of  Saint-Germain.  The  Poictevin 
herald  bore  word  to  King  Philip-Augustus  on 
Richard's  part;  Prince  John,  as  I  suppose,  bore 
his  own  word  whither  he  had  most  need  for  it 
to  go.  It  is  believed  that  he  contrived  to  see 
Madame  Alois  in  private  ;  and  if  that  great  purple 
cape  that  held  him  in  talk  for  nearly  an  hour  by  a 
windy  corner  of  the  Pre-aux-Clercs  did  not  cover 
the  back  of  Montferrat,  then  Gossip  is  a  liar. 
Richard,  for  his  part,  took  no  account  of  John 


CH.vi  FRUITS  0:F  the   TENZON  77 

and  his  shifts ;  a  wave  of  disgust  for  the  creeping 
youth  had  filled  the  stronger  man,  and  having  got 
him  into  Paris  there  seemed  nothing  better  to  do 
with  him  than  to  let  him  alone.  But  that  sensitive 
gorge  of  Richard's  was  one  of  his  worst  enemies : 
if  he  did  not  mean  to  hold  the  snake  in  the  stick, 
he  had  better  not  have  cleft  the  stick.  As  for 
John  and  his  writhing,  I  am  only  half  concerned 
with  them ;  but  let  me  tell  you  this.  Whatever 
he  did  or  did  not  sprang  not  from  hatred  of  this 
or  that  man,  but  from  fear,  or  from  love  of  his 
own  belly.  Every  prince  of  the  house  of  Anjou 
loved  inordinately  some  member  of  himself,  some 
a  noble  member  nobly,  and  others  basely  a  base 
member.  If  John  loved  his  belly,  Richard  loved 
his  royal  head:  but  enough.  To  be  done  with 
all  this,  Richard  was  summoned  to  the  French 
King  hot-foot,  within  a  day  or  two  of  his  coming ; 
went  immediately  with  his  chaplain  Anselm  and 
other  one  or  two,  and  was  immediately  received. 
He  had,  in  fact,  obeyed  in  such  haste  that  he 
found  two  in  the  audience-chamber  instead  of  one. 
With  Philip  of  France  was  Conrad  of  Montferrat, 
a  large,  pale,  ruminating  Italian,  full  of  bluster 
and  thick  blood.  The  French  King  was  a  youth, 
just  the  age  of  Jehane,  of  the  thin,  sharp,  black- 
and-white  mould  into  which  had  run  the  dregs 
of  Capet.  He  was  smooth-faced  like  a  girl,  and 
had  no  need  to  shave ;  his  lips  were  very  thin,  set 
crooked  in  his  face.  So  far  as  he  was  boy  he 
loved  and  admired  Richard,  so  far  as  he  was 
Capet  he  distrusted  him  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

Richard  kn^lt  to  his  suzerain  and  was  by  him 


78  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

caught  up  and  kissed.  Philip  made  him  sit  at  his 
side  on  the  throne.  This  put  Montferrat,  who 
was  standing,  sadly  out  of  countenance,  for  he 
considered  himself  (as  perhaps  he  was)  the  supe- 
rior of  any  man  uncrowned. 

It  seems  that  some  news  had  drifted  in  on  the 
west  wind.  *  Richard,  oh,  Richard!'  the  King 
began,  half  whimsical  and  half  vexed,  *  What  have 
you  been  doing  in  Touraine  ? ' 

'  Fair  sire,'  answered  Richard,  *  I  have  been 
doing  what  will,  I  fear,  give  pain  to  our  cousin 
Montferrat.  I  have  been  breaking  the  back  of 
the  Count  of  Saint- Pol.'  At  this  the  Marquess, 
suffused  with  dark  blood  till  he  was  colour  of 
lead,  broke  out,  pointing  his  finger  as  well  as  his 
words.  As  the  bilge-water  jets  from  a  ketch  when 
the  hold  is  surcharged,  so  did  the  Marquess  jet 
his  expletives. 

'  Ha,  sire !  Ha,  King  of  France !  Now  give 
me  leave  to  break  this  brigand's  back,  who  robs 
and  reviles  in  one  breath.  Touch  of  the  Gospel, 
is  it  to  be  borne  ? '  Foaming  with  rage,  he  lunged 
forward  a  step  or  two,  his  hand  upon  his  long 
sword.  Richard  slowly  got  up  from  the  throne 
and  stood  his  full  height. 


*  Marquess,  you  use  words  I  will  not  hear ' 

King    Philip    broke    in  — '  Fair   lords,   sweet 

lords ';  but  Richard  put  his  hand  up,  having 

a  kingly  way  with  him  which  even  kings  observed. 

*  Dear  sire,'  —  his  voice  was  level  and  cool  — 
'  let  me  say  my  whole  mind  before  the  Marquess 
recovers  his.  The  Count  of  Saint-Pol,  for  beastly 
reasons,  spoke  in  my  hearing  either  true  things  or 
false  things  concerning  Madame  Alois.     If  they 


CH.  VI  .  FRUITS  OF  THE    TENZON  79 

were  true  I  was  ready  to  die ;  if  they  were  false  I 
hope  he  was.  Believing  them  false,  I  had  punished 
one  man  for  them  before ;  but  he  had  them  from 
Saint-Pol.  Therefore  I  called  Saint-Pol  a  liar, 
and  other  proper  things.  This  gave  him  occasion 
to  save  his  credit  at  the  risk  of  his  back.  He 
broke  the  one  and  I  the  other.  Now  I  will  hear 
the  Marquess.' 

The  Marquess  tugged  at  his  sword.     *  And  I, 

Count  of  Poictou ' ;  but  King  Philip  held  out 

his  sceptre,  he  too  very  much  a  king. 

*  And  we.  Count  of  Poictou,'  he  said, '  command 
you  by  your  loyalty  to  tell  us  what  Saint- Pol  dared 
say  of  our  sister  Dame  Alois.'  Although  his  thin 
boy's  voice  quavered,  he  seemed  the  more  royal 
for  the  human  weakness.  Richard  was  greatly 
moved,  thawed  in  a  moment. 

'  God  forgive  me,  Philip,  but  I  cannot  tell 
thee '     Pity  broke  up  his  tones. 

The  young  king  almost  whimpered:  *0h, 
Richard,  what  is  this  ? '  But  Richard  turned 
away  his  face.  It  was  now  the  chance  of  the 
great  Italian. 

*  Now  listen,  King  Philip,'  he  said,  grim  and 
square,  *  and  listen  you,  Count  of  Poictou,  whose 
account  is  to  be  quieted  presently.  Of  this 
business  I  happen  to  know  something.  If  it 
serve  not  your  honour  I  cannot  help  it.  It 
serves  my  murdered  cousin's  honour  —  therefore 
listen.' 

Richard's  head  was  up.  *  Peace,  hound,'  he 
said,  and  the  Marquess  snarled  like  an  old  dog; 
but  Philip,  with  a  quivering  lip,  put  out  his  hand 
till  it  touched  Richard's  shoulder.     *  I  must  hear 


8o  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  t 

it,  Richard,'  he  said.  Richard  put  his  arm  round 
the  lad's  neck:  so  the  Marquess  told  his  story. 
At  the  end  of  it  Richard  dared  look  down  into 
Philip's  marred  eyes.  Then  he  kissed  his  fore- 
head, and  '  Oh,  Philip,'  says  he,  '  let  him  who  is 
hardy  enough  to  tell  this  tale  believe  it,  and  let 
us  who  hear  it  do  as  we  must.  But  now  you 
understand  why  I  made  an  end  of  Saint-Pol,  and 
why,  by  heaven  and  earth,  I  will  make  an  end  of 
this  brass  pot.'  He  turned  upon  Montferrat  with 
his  teeth  bare.  '  Conrad,  Conrad,  Conrad ! '  he 
cried  terribly,  *  mark  your  goings  about  this 
slippery  world ;  for  if  when  I  get  you  alone  I  do 
not  send  you  quick  into  hell,  may  I  go  down  my- 
self beyond  redemption  of  the  Church ! ' 

'  That  you  will  surely  do,  my  lord,'  says  the 
Marquess  of  Montferrat,  greatly  disturbed. 

*  If  I  get  you  there  also  I  shall  be  reasonably 
entertained  for  a  short  time,'  Richard  answered, 
already  cooled  and  ashamed  of  his  heat.  Then 
King  Philip  dismissed  the  Marquess,  and  as  soon 
as  he  was  rid  of  him  jumped  into  Richard's  arms, 
and  cried  his  heart  away. 

Richard,  who  was  fond  of  the  youth,  comforted 
him  as  well  as  he  was  able,  but  on  one  point  was 
a  rock.  He  would  not  hear  the  word  *  marriage  ' 
until  he  had  seen  the  lady.  '  Oh,  Richard,  marry 
her  quick,  marry  her  quick  !  So  we  can  face  the 
world,'  the  young  King  had  blubbered,  thinking 
that  course  the  simplest  answer  to  the  affront 
upon  his  house.  It  did  not  seem  so  simple  to 
the  Count,  or  (rather)  it  seemed  too  simple  by 
half.  In  his  private  mind  he  knew  perfectly  well 
that  he  could  not  marry  Madame  Alois.     So,  for 


CH.  VI  FRUITS  OF  THE    TENZON  8i 

that  matter,  did  King  Philip  by  this  time.  *I 
must  see  Alois,  Philip,  I  must  see  her  alone,' 
was  all  Richard  had  to  say ;  and  really  it  could 
not  be  gainsaid. 

He  went  to  her  after  proper  warning,  and  saw 
the  truth  the  moment  he  had  view  of  her.  Then 
also  he  knew  that  he  had  really  seen  it  before. 
That  white,  furtive,  creeping  girl,  from  whose 
loose  hair  peered  out  a  pair  of  haunted  eyes; 
that  drooped  thing  backing  against  the  wall,  feel- 
ing for  it,  flat  against  it,  with  open  shocked 
mouth,  astare  but  seeing  nothing:  the  whole 
truth  flared  before  him  monstrously  naked.  He 
loathed  the  sight  of  her,  but  had  to  speak  her 
smoothly. 

*  Princess '  he  said,  and  came  forward  to 

touch  her  hand ;  but  she  slipped  away  from  him, 
crouching  to  the  wall.  The  torment  of  breath  in 
her  bosom  was  bad  to  see. 

*  Touch  me  not,  Count  of  Poictou ; '  she  whis- 
pered the  words,  and  then  moaned, '  O  God,  what 
will  become  of  me } ' 

*  Madame,'  said  Richard,  rather  dry,  '  God  may 
answer  your  question,  since  He  knows  all  things, 
but  certainly  I  cannot,  unless  you  first  tell  me 
what  has  hitherto  become  of  you.' 

She  steadied  herself  by  the  wall,  her  palms  flat 
upon  it,  and  leaned  her  body  forward  like  one 
who  searches  in  a  dark  place.  Then,  shaking 
her  head,  she  let  it  fall  to  her  breast.  '  Is  there 
any  sorrow  like  my  sorrow } '  says  she  to  herself, 
as  though  he  had  not  been  there. 

Richard  grew  stern.  *  So  asked  in  His  agony 
the  Son  of  high  God,'  he  reproved  her.     *  If  you 


82  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

dare  ask  Him  that  in  His  own  words  your  sorrow 
must  be  deep.' 

She  said,  *  It  is  most  deep.* 

*  But  His,'  said  Richard,  *  was  bitter  shame.' 

She  said,  '  And  mine  is  bitter.' 

'But  His  was  undeserved.'  He  spoke  scorn; 
so  then  she  lifted  up  her  head,  and  with  eyes 
most  piteous  searched  his  face.  '  But  mine, 
Richard,'  she  said,  'but  mine  is  deserved.' 

'  The  hearing  is  pertinent,'  said  Richard.  '  As 
a  son  and  man  affianced  it  touches  me  pretty 
close.' 

Out  of  the  hot  and  desperate  struggle  for 
breath,  sounds  came  from  her,  but  no  words. 
But  she  ran  forward  blindly,  and  kneeling,  caught 
him  by  the  knees;  he  could  not  but  find  pity  in 
his  heart  for  the  witless  poor  wretch,  who  seemed 
to  be  fighting,  not  with  regret  nor  for  need  of  his 
pity,  but  with  some  maggot  in  the  brain  which 
drove  her  deeper  into  the  fiery  centre  of  the 
storm.  Richard  did  what  he  could.  A  religious 
man  himself,  he  pointed  her  to  the  Christ  on  the 
wall ;  but  she  waved  it  out  of  sight,  shook  her 
wild  hair  back,  and  clung  to  him  still,  asking 
some  unguessed  mercy  with  her  eyes  and  sobbing 
breath.  '  God  help  this  tormented  soul,  for  I 
cannot,'  he  prayed;  and  said  aloud,  'I  will  call 
your  women;  let  me  go.'  So  he  tried  to  undo 
her  hands,  but  she  clenched  her  teeth  together 
and  held  on  with  frenzy,  whining,  grunting,  like 
some  pounded  animal.  Dumbly  they  strove  to- 
gether for  a  little  panting  space  of  time. 

'Ah,  but  you  shall  let  me  go,'  he  said  then, 
much  distressed,  and  forcibly  unknotted  her  mad 


CH.  VI  FRUITS  OF  THE    TENZON  ^7, 

hands.  She  fell  back  upon  her  heels,  and  looked 
up  at  him.  Such  hopeless,  grinning  misery  he 
had  never  seen  on  a  face  before.  He  was  certain 
now  that  she  was  out  of  her  wits. 

Yet  once  again  she  brushed  her  hands  over  her 
face,  as  he  had  seen  her  do  before,  like  one  who 
sweeps  gossamers  away  on  autumn  mornings; 
and  though  she  was  all  in  a  shiver  and  shake 
with  the  fever  she  had,  she  found  her  voice  at  last. 
*  Ah,  thanks !  Ah,  my  thanks,  O  Christ  my 
Saviour ! '  she  sighed.  *  O  sweet  Saviour  Christ, 
now  I  will  tell  him  all  the  truth.' 

If  he  had  listened  to  her  then  it  had  been  well 
for  him.  But  he  did  not.  The  struggle  had 
fretted  him  likewise ;  if  she  was  mad  he  was 
maddened.  He  got  angry  where  he  should  have 
been  most  patient.  '  The  truth,  by  heaven  ! '  he 
snapped.  '  Ah,  if  I  have  not  had  enough  of  this 
truth  ! '  And  so  he  left  her  shuddering.  As  he 
went  down  the  long  corridor  he  heard  shriek  after 
shriek,  and  then  the  scurrying  of  many  feet. 
Turning,  he  saw  carried  lights,  women  running. 
The  sounds  were  muffled,  they  had  her  safe. 
Richard  went  to  his  house  over  the  river,  and 
slept  for  ten  hours. 


CHAPTER   VII 

OF  THE  CRACKLING  OF  THORNS  UNDER  POTS 

Just  as  no  two  pots  will  boil  alike,  so  with  men; 
they  seethe  in  trouble  with  a  difference.  With 
one  the  grief  is  taken  inly:  this  was  Richard's 
kind.  The  French  King  was  feverish,  the  Mar- 
quess explosive,  John  of  England  all  eyes  and 
alarms.  So  Richard's  remedy  for  trouble  was 
action,  Philip's  counsel,  the  Marquess's  a  glut  of 
hatred,  and  John's  plotting.  The  consequence 
IS,  that  in  the  present  vexed  state  of  things 
Richard  threw  off  his  discontent  with  his  bed- 
clothes, and  at  once  took  the  lead  of  the  others, 
because  it  could  be  done  at  once.  He  declared 
open  war  against  the  King  his  father,  despatching 
heralds  with  the  cartel  the  same  day;  he  gave 
King  Philip  to  understand  that  the  French  power 
might  be  for  him  or  against  him  as  seemed  fitting, 
but  that  no  power  in  heaven  or  on  earth  would 
engage  him  to  marry  Dame  Alois.  King  Philip, 
still  clinging  to  his  friend,  made  a  treaty  of  alli- 
ance with  him  against  Henry  of  England.  That 
done,  sealed  and  delivered,  Richard  sent  for  his 
brother  John.  '  Brother,'  he  said,  '  I  have  de- 
clared war  against  my  father,  and  Philip  is  to  be 
of  our  party.  In  his  name  and  my  own  I  am 
to  tell  you  that  one  of  two  things  you  must  do. 
You  may  stay  in  our  lands  or  leave  them ;  but  if 

84 


CH.  VII  THE   CRACKLING   OF  THORNS  85 

you  stay  you  must  sign  our  treaty  of  alliance.* 
Too  definite  for  John,  all  this :  he  asked  for  time, 
and  Richard  gave  him  till  nightfall.  At  dusk  he 
sent  for  him  again.  John  chose  to  stay  in  Paris. 
Then  Richard  thought  he  would  go  home  to 
Poictou.  The  moment  his  back  was  turned 
began  various  closetings  of  the  magnates  left 
behind,  with  which  I  mean  to  fatigue  the  reader 
as  little  as  possible. 

One  such  chamber-business  I  must  record.  To 
Paris  in  the  black  February  weather  came  pelting 
the  young  Count  Eustace,  now  by  his  brother's 
death  Count  of  Saint-Pol.  Misfortune,  they  say, 
makes  of  one  a  man  or  a  saint.  Of  Eustace  Saint- 
Pol  it  had  made  a  man.  After  his  homage  done, 
this  youth  still  kneeling,  his  hands  still  between 
Philip's  hands,  looked  fixedly  into  his  sovereign's 
face,  and  '  A  boon,  fair  sire  ! '  he  said.  *  A  boon 
to  your  new  man  ! ' 

'  What  now.  Saint- Pol  ? '  asked  King  Philip. 

*  Sire,'  he  said,  *  my  sister's  marriage  is  in  you. 
I  beg  you  to  give  her  to  Messire  Gilles  de  Gurdun, 
a  good  knight  of  Normandy.' 

'  That  is  a  poor  marriage  for  her,  Saint- Pol,' 
said  the  King,  considering,  '  and  a  poor  marriage 
for  me,  by  Saint  Mary.  Why  should  I  enrich  the 
King  of  England,  with  whom  I  am  at  war  ?  You 
must  give  me  reason  for  that' 

'  I  will  give  you  this  reason,'  said  young  Saint- 
Pol;  'it  is  because  that  devil  who  slew  my  brother 
will  have  her  else.' 

King  Philip  said,  'Why,  I  can  give  her  to 
one  who  will  hold  her  fast.  Your  Gurdun  is  a 
Norman,  you  say }     Well,  but  Count  Richard  in 


86  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

a  little  while  will  have  him  under  his  hand ;  and 
how  are  you  served  then  ? ' 

'  I  doubt,  sire,'  replied  Saint-Pol.  *  Moreover, 
there  is  this,  if  it  please  you  to  hear  it.  When 
the  Count  of  Poictou  repudiated  (as  he  most 
villainously  did)  my  sister,  he  himself  gave  her 
to  Gurdun.  But  I  fear  him,  lest  seeing  her  any 
other's  he  should  take  her  again.* 

'  What  is  this,  man  ? '  asked  King  Philip. 

*  Sire,  he  writes  letters  to  my  sister  that  he  is  a 
free  man,  and  she  keeps  them  by  her  and  often 
reads  them  in  secret.  So  she  was  caught  but 
lately  by  my  lady  aunt,  reading  one  in  bed.' 

The  King's  brow  grew  very  black,  for  though 
he  knew  that  Richard  would  never  marry  Madame, 
he  did  not  choose  (but  resented)  that  any  other 
should  know  it.  At  this  moment  Montferrat 
came  in,  and  stood  by  his  kinsman. 

'  Ah,  sire,'  said  he,  in  those  bloodhound  tones 
of  his,  *  give  us  leave  to  deal  in  this  business  with 
free  hands.' 

'  What  would  you  do  in  it,  Marquess  ? '  asked 
the  King  fretfully. 

'  Kill  him,  by  God,'  said  the  Marquess ;  and 
young  Saint-Pol  added,  '  Give  us  his  life,  O  lord 
King; 

King  Philip  thought.  He  was  fresh  from 
making  a  treaty  with  Richard ;  but  that  was  in 
a  war  of  requital  only,  and  would  be  ended  so 
soon  as  the  last  drop  had  been  drained  from  the 
old  King.  What  would  follow  the  war.?  He 
was  by  this  time  cooler  towards  Richard,  very 
much  vexed  at  what  he  had  just  heard ;  he  could 
not  help  remembering  that  marriage  with  Alois 


CH.  VII  THE   CRACKLING  OF  THORNS  87 

would  have  been  the  proper  reply  to  scandalous 
report.  Should  he  be  able,  when  the  war  was 
done,  to  squeeze  Richard  into  marriage  or  an 
equivalent  in  lands  ?  He  wondered,  he  doubted 
greatly.  On  the  other  hand,  if  he  and  Richard 
could  crush  old  Henry,  and  Saint-Pol  afterwards 
bruise  Richard  —  why,  what  was  Philip  but  a 
gainer  ? 

Chewing  the  fringe  of  his  mantle  as  he  con- 
sidered this  and  that, '  If  I  give  Madame  Jehane  in 
marriage  to  your  Gurdun,'  he  said  dubiously,  'what 
will  Gurdun  do  ? ' 

Saint-Pol  named  the  sum,  a  fair  one. 

'  But  what  part  will  he  take  in  the  quarrel  ? ' 
asked  the  King. 

'  He  will  take  my  part,  as  he  is  bound,  sire.' 

*  Pest ! '  cried  Philip,  '  let  us  get  at  it.  What  is 
this  part  of  yours  ? ' 

*  The  part  of  him  who  has  a  blood-feud,  my 
lord,'  said  young  Saint-Pol;  and  the  Marquess 
said,  '  That  is  my  part  also.' 

'  Have  it  according  to  your  desires,  my  lords,' 
then  said  King  Philip.  '  I  give  you  this  marriage. 
Make  it  as  speedily  as  may  be,  but  let  not  Count 
Richard  have  news  until  it  is  done.  There  is  a 
fire,  I  tell  you,  hidden  in  that  tall  man.  Remember 
this  too,  Saint-Pol.  You  shall  not  make  war  on 
the  side  of  England  against  Richard,  for  that  will 
be  against  me.  Your  feud  must  wait  its  turn. 
For  this  present  I  have  an  account  to  settle  in 
which  Poictou  is  on  my  side.  Marquess,  you 
likewise  are  in  my  debt.  See  to  it  that  you  give 
my  enemies  no  advantage.' 

The  Marquess  and  his  cousin  gave  their  words, 


88  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

holding  up  the  hilts  of  their  swords  before  their 
faces. 

Richard,  in  his  city  of  Poictiers,  was  calmly 
forwarding  his  plans.  His  first  act,  since  he  now 
considered  himself  perfectly  free,  had  been  to 
send  Gaston  of  Beam  with  letters  to  Saint- Pol- 
la-Marche ;  his  second,  seeing  no  reason  why  he 
should  wait  for  King  Philip  or  any  possible  ally, 
to  cross  the  frontier  of  Touraine  in  force.  He 
took  castle  after  castle  in  that  rich  land,  clearing 
the  way  for  the  investiture  of  Tours,  which  was 
his  first  great  objective. 

I  leave  him  at  this  employment  and  follow 
Gaston  on  his  way  to  the  North.  It  was  early 
in  March  when  that  young  man  started,  squally, 
dusty  weather;  but  perfect  trobador  as  he  was, 
the  nature  of  his  errand  warmed  him;  he  com- 
posed a  whole  nosegay  of  scented  songs  in  hon- 
our of  Richard  and  the  crocus-haired  lady  of  the 
March  who  wore  the  broad  girdle.  Riding  as  he 
did  through  the  realm  of  France,  by  Chateaudun, 
Chartres,  and  Pontoise,  he  narrow^ly  missed  Eus- 
tace of  Saint- Pol,  who  was  galloping  the  opposite 
way  upon  an  errand  dead  opposed  to  his  own. 
Gaston  would  have  fought  him,  of  course,  but 
would  have  been  killed  to  a  certainty ;  for  Saint- 
Pol  rode  as  became  his  lordship,  with  a  company, 
and  the  other  was  alone.  He  was  spared  any  such 
mischance,  however,  and  arrived  in  the  highest 
spirits,  with  an  alba  (song  of  the  dawn)  for  what 
he  supposed  to  be  Jehane's  window.  It  shows 
what  an  eye  he  had  for  a  lady*s  chamber  that  he 
was  very  nearly  right.  A  lady  did  put  her  head 
out;  not  Jehane,  but  a  rock-faced  matron  of  vast 


CH.  VII  THE   CRACKLING  OF  THORNS  89 

proportions    with    grey   hair    plastered    to    her 
cheeks. 

*  Behold,  behold  the  dawn,  my  tender  heart ! ' 
breathed  Gaston. 

*  Out,  you  cockerel,'  said  the  old  lady,  and 
Gaston  wooed  her  in  vain.  It  appeared  that  she 
was  an  aunt,  sworn  to  the  service  of  the  Count, 
and  had  Jehane  safe  in  a  tower  under  lock  and 
key.  Gaston  retired  into  the  woods  to  meditate. 
There  he  wrote  five  identic  notes  to  the  prisoner. 
The  first  he  gave  to  a  boy  whom  he  found  birds'- 
nesting.  '  Take  a  turtle's  nest,  sweet  boy,'  said 
Gaston,  *to  my  lady  Jehane;  say  it  is  first-fruits 
of  the  year,  and  win  a  silver  piece.  Beware  of  an 
old  lady  with  a  jaw  like  a  flat-iron.'  The  second 
he  gave  to  a  woodman  tying  billets  for  the  Castle 
ovens ;  the  third  a  maid  put  in  her  placket,  and 
he  taught  her  the  fourth  by  heart  in  a  manner 
quite  his  own  and  very  much  to  her  taste.  With 
the  fifth  he  was  most  adroit.  He  demanded  an 
interview  with  the  duenna,  whose  name  was  Dame 
Gudule.  She  accorded.  Gaston  spilled  his  very 
soul  out  before  her;  he  knelt  to  her,  he  kissed 
her  large  velvet  feet.  The  lady  was  touched,  I 
mean  literally,  for  Gaston  as  he  stooped  fitted  his 
fifth  note  into  the  braid  of  her  ample  skirt.  The 
only  one  to  arrive  was  the  boy's  in  the  bird's  nest. 
The  boy  wanted  his  silver  piece,  and  got  it.  So 
Jehane  had  another  note  to  cherish. 

But  she  had  to  answer  it  first.  It  said,  *  Vera 
Copia.  Ma  mye,  I  set  on  to  the  burden  you  gave 
me,  but  it  failed  of  breaking  my  back.  I  have 
punished  some  of  the  wicked,  and  have  some  still 
to  punish.    When  this  is  done  I  shall  come  to  you. 


90  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Walt  for  me.  I  regret  your  brother's  death.  He 
deserved  it.  The  fight  was  fair.  Learn  of  me 
from  Gaston.  —  Richard  of  Anjou.'  Her  answer 
was  leaping  in  her  heart ;  she  led  the  boy  to  the 
window. 

'  Look  down,  boy,  and  tell  me  what  you  can 
see.' 

*  Dame ! '  said  the  boy,  *  I  see  the  moat,  and 
ducks  on  it' 

*  Look  again,  dear,  and  tell  me  what  you  see.' 
'  I  see  an  old  fish  on  his  back.     He  is  dead.' 
Jehane  laughed  quietly.     *  He  has  been  there 

many  days.  Tell  the  knight  who  sent  you  to 
stand  thereabout,  looking  up.  Tell  him  not  to 
be  there  at  any  hour  save  that  of  mass,  or  ves- 
pers.    Will  you  do  this,  dear  boy  1 ' 

*  Certain  sure,'  said  the  boy.  Jehane  gave  him 
money  and  a  kiss,  then  fastened  herself  to  the 
window. 

Gaston  excelled  in  pantomime.  Every  day  for 
a  week  he  saw  Jehane  at  her  window,  and  enacted 
many  strange  plays.  He  showed  her  the  old  King 
stormy  in  his  tent,  the  meagre  white  unrest  of 
Alois,  the  outburst  at  Autafort  and  Bertran  de 
Born  with  his  tongue  out ;  the  meeting  at  Tours, 
the  battle,  the  death  of  the  Count  her  brother.  He 
was  admirable  on  Richard's  love-desires.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  at  all  about  them.  Pricked  by 
his  feats  in  this  sort,  Jehane  overcame  her  reserve 
and  turned  her  members  into  marionettes.  She 
puffed  her  cheeks,  hung  her  head,  scowled  up- 
wards :  there  was  Gilles  de  Gurdun  to  the  life. 
She  looped  finger  and  thumb  of  the  right  hand 
and  pierced  them  with  the  ring  finger :  ohe !  her 


CH.vii  THE  CRACKLING  OF  THORNS  91 

fate.  Gaston  in  reply  to  this  drew  his  sword  and 
ran  a  cypress-tree  through  the  body.  Jehane  shook 
a  sorrowful  head,  but  he  waved  all  such  denials 
away  with  a  hand  so  expressive  that  Jehane  broke 
the  window  and  leaned  her  body  out.  Gaston 
uttered  a  cheerful  cry. 

*  Have  no  fear,  lovely  prisoner.  If  that  is  his 
intention  he  is  gone.    I  kill  him.     It  is  arranged.' 

'  My  brother  Eustace  is  in  Paris,'  says  Jehane 
in  a  low  but  carrying  voice,  '  to  get  my  marriage 
from  the  King.' 

'  Again  I  say,  fear  nothing,'  Gaston  cried ;  but 
Jehane  strained  out  as  far  as  she  could. 

*  You  must  go  away  from  here.  The  window 
is  broken  now,  and  they  will  find  me  out.  Take 
a  message  to  my  lord.  If  he  is  free  indeed,  he 
knows  me  his  in  life  or  death.  I  seek  to  do  him 
service.  Wed  or  unwed,  what  is  that  to  me? 
1  am  still  Jehane.' 

*  Your  name  is  Red  Heart,  and  Golden  Rose, 
and  Loiale  Amye !  Farewell,  Star  of  the  North,' 
said  Gaston  on  his  knees.  '  I  seek  this  Gurdun  of 
yours.' 

He  found  him  after  some  days'  perilous  prowl- 
ing of  the  Norman  march.  Gilles  had  received 
the  summons  of  his  Duke  to  be  m  et  armis  at 
Rouen ;  a  little  later  Gaston  might  have  met  him 
in  the  field  of  broad  battle,  but  such  delay  was 
not  to  his  mind.  He  met  him  instead  in  a  wood- 
land glade  near  Gisors,  alone  (by  a  great  chance), 
sword  on  thigh. 

'  Beef,  thou  diest,'  said  the  Bearnais,  peaking 
his  beard.  Gilles  made  no  reply  that  can  be 
written,  for  what  letters   can    shape   a    Norman 


92  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

grunt  ?  Perhaps  '  Wauch  ! '  comes  nearest.  They 
fought  on  horseback,  with  swords,  from  noon  to 
sunset,  and  having  hacked  one  another  out  of  the 
similitude  of  men,  there  was  nothing  left  them  to 
do  but  swoon  side  by  side  on  the  sodden  leaves. 
In  the  morning  Gaston,  unclogging  one  eye,  per- 
ceived that  his  enemy  had  gone.  '  No  matter,' 
said  the  spent  hero  to  himself.  *  I  will  wait  till 
he  comes  back,  and  have  at  him  again.' 

He  waited  an  unconscionable  time,  a  month  in 
fact,  during  which  he  delighted  to  watch  the  shy 
oncoming  of  a  Northern  spring,  so  different  from 
the  sudden  flooding  of  the  South.  He  found  the 
wood-sorrel,  he  measured  the  crosiers  of  the  brake, 
and  saw  the  blue  mist  of  the  hyacinth  carpet  the 
glades.  All  this  charmed  him  quite,  until  he 
learned,  by  hazard,  that  the  Sieur  de  Gurdun  was 
to  be  married  to  Dame  Jehane  Saint-Pol  on  Palm 
55unday  in  the  church  of  Saint  Sulpice  of  Gisors. 
*  God  ha'  mercy ! '  he  thought,  with  a  stab  at  the 
heart;  *  there  is  merely  time.'  He  rode  South  on 
the  wind's  wings. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

HOW  THEY  HELD   RICHARD   OFF  FROM  HIS   FATHER'S 
THROAT 

Long  before  the  pink  flush  on  the  almond 
announced  the  earth  a  bride,  on  all  Gaulish  roads 
had  been  heard  the  tramp  of  armed  men,  the  ring 
of  steel  on  steel.  This  new  war  splintered  Gaul. 
Aquitaine  held  for  Richard,  who,  though  he  had 
quelled  and  afterwards  governed  that  great  duchy 
with  an  iron  whip,  had  made  himself  respected 
there.  So  the  Count  of  Provence  sent  him  a 
company,  the  Count  of  Toulouse  and  Dauphin 
of  Auvergne  each  brought  a  company ;  from 
Perigord,  from  Bertram  Count  of  Roussillon,  from 
Beam,  and  (for  reasons)  from  the  wise  King  of 
Navarre,  came  pikemen  and  slingers,  and  long- 
bowmen,  and  knights  with  their  esquires  and 
banner-bearers.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy  and 
Count  of  Champagne  came  from  the  east  to  fill 
the  battles  of  King  Philip;  in  the  west  the 
Countess  of  Brittany  sent  about  the  war-torch. 
All  the  extremes  of  Gaul  were  in  arms  against  the 
red  old  Angevin  who  sat  at  her  heart,  who  was 
now  still  snarling  in  England,  and  sending  mes- 
sage after  secret  message  to  his  son  John.  That 
same  John,  alone  in  Paris,  headed  no  spears,  partly 
because  he  had  none  of  his  own,  partly  because  he 
dared  not  declare  himself  openly.  He  had  taken  a 
side,  driven  by  his  vehement  brother ;  for  the  first 

93 


94  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.i 

time  in  his  life  he  had  put  pen  to  parchment. 
God  knew  (he  thought)  that  was  committal 
enough.  So  he  stayed  in  Paris,  shifting  his 
body  about  to  get  comfort  as  the  winds  veered. 
Nobody  inquired  of  him,  least  of  all  his  brother 
Richard,  who,  beyond  requiring  his  signature, 
cared  little  what  he  did  with  his  person.  This 
was  characteristic  of  Richard.  He  would  drive 
a  man  into  a  high  place  and  then  forget  him. 
Reminded  of  his  neglect,  he  would  shrug  and  say, 
'Yes.  But  he  is  a  fool.'  Insufficient  answer:  he 
did  not  see  or  did  not  choose  to  see  that  there 
are  two  sorts  of  fools.  Stranded  on  his  peak,  one 
man  might  be  fool  enough  to  stop  there,  another 
to  try  a  descent.  Prince  John  (no  fool  either) 
was  of  this  second  quality.  How  he  tried  to  get 
down,  and  where  else  he  tried  to  go,  will  be  made 
clear  in  time.  You  and  I  must  go  to  the  war  in 
the  west. 

War  showed  Count  Richard  entered  into  his 
birthright.  As  a  strategist  he  was  superb,  the 
best  of  his  time.  What  his  eye  took  in  his  mind 
snapped  up  —  like  a  steel  gin.  And  his  eye  was 
the  true  soldier's  eye,  comprehending  by  signs, 
investing  with  life  what  was  tongueless  else. 
Over  great  stretches  of  barren  country  —  that 
limitless  land  of  France  —  he  could  see  massed 
men  on  the  move;  creeping  forward  in  snaky 
columns,  spread  fanwise  from  clump  to  woody 
clump ;  here  camping  snugly  under  the  hill,  there 
lining  the  river  bluffs  with  winged  death ;  checked 
here,  helped  there  by  a  moraine  —  as  well  as  you 
or  I  may  foresee  the  conduct  of  a  chess-board. 
He  omitted  nothing,  judged  times  and  seasons, 


CH.  vra  WAR  IN  THE  WEST  95 

reckoned  defences  at  their  worth,  knew  all  the 
fordable  places  by  the  lie  of  the  land,  timed 
cavalry  and  infantry  to  rendezvous,  forestalled 
communications,  provided  not  only  for  his  own 
base,  but  against  the  enemy's.  All  this,  of  course, 
without  maps,  and  very  much  against  the  systems 
of  his  neighbours.  It  was  thus  he  had  outwitted 
the  heady  barons  of  Aquitaine  when  little  more 
than  a  lad,  and  had  turned  the  hill  forts  into 
death-traps  against  their  tenants.  He  had  the 
secret  of  swift  marching  by  night,  of  delivering 
assault  upon  assault,  so  that  while  you  staggered 
under  one  blow  you  received  another  full.  He 
could  be  as  patient  as  Death,  that  inchmeal 
stalker  of  his  prey;  he  could  be  as  ruthless  as 
the  sea,  and  incredibly  generous  upon  occasion. 
To  the  men  he  led  he  was  a  father,  known  and 
beloved  as  such ;  it  was  as  a  ruler  they  found 
him  too  lonely  to  be  loved.  In  war  he  was  the 
very  footboy's  friend.  Personally,  when  the  bat- 
tles joined,  he  was  rash  to  a  fault ;  but  so  blithe, 
so  ready,  and  so  gracefully  strong,  that  to  think 
of  wounds  upon  so  bright  a  surface  was  an 
impiety.  No  one  did  think  of  them :  he  seemed 
to  play  with  danger  as  a  cat  with  whirling  leaves. 
'  I  have  seen  him,'  Milo  writes  somewhere,  '  ride 
into  a  serry  of  knights,  singing,  throwing  up  and 
catching  again  his  great  sword  Gaynpayn ;  then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  stiffen  as  with  a  gush  of  sap  in 
his  veins,  dart  his  head  forward,  gather  his  horse 
together  under  him,  and  fling  into  the  midst  of 
them  like  a  tiger  into  a  herd  of  bulls.  One  saw 
nothing  but  tossing  steel;  yet  Richard  ever 
emerged,  red  but  scatheless,  on  the  further  side. 


96  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Upon  this  man  the  brunt  of  war  fell  naturally: 
having  begun,  he  did  not  hold  his  hand.  By  the 
beginning  of  February  he  had  laid  his  plans,  by 
the  end  of  it  he  had  taken  Saumur,  cut  Angers 
off  from  Tours,  and  turned  all  the  valley  of  the 
Loire  into  a  scorched  cinder-bed.  In  the  early 
days  of  March  he  sat  down  before  Tours  with  his 
siege-engines,  petraries,  mangonels,  and  towers, 
and  daily  battered  at  the  walls,  with  intent  to 
reduce  it  before  the  war  was  really  afloat.  The 
city  of  Saint  Martin  was  doomed;  no  help  from 
Anjou  could  save  it,  for  none  could  come  that 
way.  Meantime  the  King  his  father  had  landed 
at  Honfleur,  assembled  his  Normans  at  Rouen, 
and  was  working  his  way  warily  down  through 
the  duchy,  feeling  for  the  French  on  his  left,  and 
for  the  Bretons  on  his  right.  He  never  found 
the  French  ;  they  were  far  south  of  him,  pushing 
through  Orleans  to  join  Richard  at  Le  Mans. 
But  the  Countess  of  Brittany's  men,  under 
Hugh  of  Dinan,  were  sacking  Avranches  when 
old  Henry  heard  the  bad  news  from  Touraine. 
That  country  and  Maine  were  as  the  apple  of 
his  eye ;  yet  he  dared  not  leave  Avranches  fated 
behind  him.  All  he  could  do  was  to  send  Will- 
iam the  Marshal  with  a  small  force  into  Anjou, 
while  he  himself  spread  out  westward  to  give 
Hugh  of  Dinan  battle  and  save  Avranches,  if 
that  might  be.  So  it  was  that  King  Philip 
slipped  in  between  him  and  Le  Mans.  By  this 
time  Richard  was  master  of  Tours,  and  himself 
o'n  the  way  to  Le  Mans,  nosing  the  air  for 
William  the  Marshal.  This  was  in  the  beginning 
of   April.     Then  on  one  and  the  same   day  he 


CH.  VIII  WAR   IN   7HE  WEST  97 

risked  all  he  had  won  for  the  sake  of  a  girl's 
proud  face,  and  nearly  lost  his  life  into  the 
bargain. 

He  had  to  cross  the  river  Aune  above  La 
Fleche.  That  river,  a  sluggish  but  deep  little 
stream,  moves  placidly  among  osiers  on  its  way 
to  swell  the  Loire.  On  either  side  the  water- 
meadows  stretch  for  three-quarters  of  a  mile; 
low  chalk-hills,  fringed  at  the  top,  are  ramparts 
to  the  sleepy  valley.  Creeping  along  the  eastern 
spurs  at  dawn,  Richard  came  in  touch  with  his 
enemy,  William  the  Marshal  and  his  force  of 
Normans  and  English.  These  had  crossed  the 
bridge  at  La  Fleche,  and  came  pricking  now 
up  the  valley  to  save  Le  Mans.  Heading  them 
boldly,  Richard  threw  out  his  archers  like  a 
waterspray  over  the  flats,  and  while  these  checked 
the  advance  and  had  the  van  in  confusion,  thun- 
dered down  the  slopes  with  his  knights,  caught 
the  Marshal  on  the  flank,  smote  him  hip  and 
thigh,  and  swept  the  core  of  his  army  into  the 
river.  The  Marshal's  battle  was  thus  destroyed ; 
but  the  wedge  had  made  too  clean  a  cleft.  Front 
and  rear  joined  up  and  held ;  so  Richard  found 
himself  in  danger.  The  Viscount  of  Beziers, 
who  led  the  rearguard,  engaged  the  enemy,  and 
pushed  them  slowly  back  towards  the  Aune; 
Richard  wheeled  his  men  and  charged,  to  take 
them  in  the  rear.  His  horse,  stumbling  on  the 
rotten  ground,  fell  badly  and  threw  him :  there 
were  cries,  '  Hola !  Count  Richard  is  down ! ' 
and  some  stayed  to  rescue  and  some  pushed  on. 
William  the  Marshal,  on  a  white  horse,  came 
suddenly  upon  him  as  he  lay.     *  Mort  de  dieu ! ' 


I 
98  RICHARD   \^A-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

shrilled  this  good  soldier,  and  threw  up  his  spear 
arm.  '  God's  feet,  Marshal,  kill  one  or  other  of 
us ! '  said  Richard  lightly :  he  was  pinned  down 
by  his  struggling  beast.  '  I  leave  you  to  the 
devil,  my  lord  Richard,'  said  the  Marshal,  and 
drove  his  spear  into  the  horse's  chest.  The 
beast's  death-plunge  freed  his  master.  Richard 
jumped  up:  even  on  foot  his  head  was  level  with 
the  rider's  shield.  *  Have  at  you  now  ! '  he  cried ; 
but  the  Marshal  shook  his  head,  and  rode  after 
his  flying  men.  The  day  was  with  Poictou,  Le 
Mans  must  fall. 

It  fell,  but  not  yet ;  nor  did  Richard  see  it  fall. 
Gaston  of  Beam  joined  his  master  the  next  day. 
'  Hasten,  hasten,  fair  lord ! '  he  cried  out  as  soon 
as  he  saw  him.  Richard  looked  as  if  he  had 
never  known  the  word. 

*  What  news  of  Normandy,  Gaston  ? ' 

*  The  English  are  through,  Richard.  The 
country  swarms  with  them.  They  hold  Avranches, 
and  now  are  moving  south.' 

*  They  are  too  late,'  said  Richard.  *  Tell  me 
what  message  you  have  from  the  Fair-Girdled.' 

*  Wed  or  unwed,  she  is  yours.  But  she  is  kept 
in  a  tower  until  Palm  Sunday.  Then  they  bring 
her  out  and  marry  her  to  what  remains  of  a  black 
Normandy  pig.  Not  very  much  remains,  but 
(they  tell  me)  enough  for  the  purpose.' 

'Spine  of  God,'  said  Richard,  examining  his 
finger-nails. 

'  Swear  by  His  heart,  rather,  my  Count,'  Gaston 
said,  'for  you  have  a  red  heart  in  your  keeping. 
Eh,  eh,  what  a  beautiful  person  is  there  1  She 
leaned  her  body  out  of  the  window  — what  a  shape 


CH.  vni  WAR  IN   THE  WEST  99 

that  girdle  confines  !  Bowered  roses  !  Dian  and 
the  Nymphs  !  Bosomed  familiars  of  0I4  Pan ! 
And  what  emerald  fires!  What  molten  hair! 
The  words  came  shortly  from  her,  and  brokenly, 
as  if  her  carved  lips  disdained  such  coarse  uses ! 
Richard,  her  words  were  so :  "  Take  a  message  to 
my  lord,"  quoth  she.  "  I  am  his  in  life  or  death. 
I  seek  to  do  him  service.  Wed  or  unwed,  what 
is  that  to  me  ?  I  am  still  Jehane."  Thus  she  — 
but  I  ?  Well,  well,  my  sword  spake  for  me  when 
I  carved  that  beef-bone  bare.'  The  Bearnais 
pulled  his  goatee,  and  looked  at  the  ends  of  it  for 
split  hairs.     But  Richard  sat  very  still. 

'  Do  you  know,  Gaston,  whom  you  have  seen  ?  * 
he  said  presently,  in  a  trembling  whisper. 

'  Perfectly  well,'  said  the  other.  *  I  have  seen  a 
pale  flower  ripe  for  the  sun.' 

'  You  have  seen  the  Countess  of  Poictou,  Gas- 
ton,' said  Richard,  and  took  to  his  prayers. 

Through  these  means,  for  the  time,  he  was 
held  off  his  father's  throat.  But  for  Jehane  and 
her  urgent  affairs  these  two  had  grappled  at  Le 
Mans.  As  it  was,  not  Richard's  hand  was  to  fire 
the  cradle-city  which  had  seen  King  Henry  at  the 
breast.  Before  nightfall  he  had  made  his  disposi- 
tions for  a  very  risky  business.  He  set  aside  the 
Viscount  of  Beziers,  Bertram  Count  of  Roussillon, 
Gaston  of  Beam,  to  go  with  him,  not  because  they 
were  the  best  men  by  any  means,  but  so  that  he 
might  leave  the  best  men  in  charge.  These  were 
certainly  the  Dauphin,  the  Viscount  of  Limoges, 
and  the  Count  of  Angoulesme,  each  of  whom  he 
had  proved  as  an  enemy  in  his  day.  '  Gentlemen,' 
he  said  to  these  three,  '  I  am  about  to  go  upon  a 


loo  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

journey.  Of  you  I  shall  require  a  little  attention, 
certain  patience,  exact  obedience.  It  will  be  nec- 
essary that  you  be  before  the  walls  of  Le  Mans 
in  three  days.  Invest  them,  my  lords,  keep  up 
your  communications,  and  wait  for  the  French 
King.  Give  no  battle,  offer  no  provocation,  let 
hunger  do  your  affair.  I  know  where  the  King 
of  England  is,  and  shall  be  with  you  before  him.' 
He  went  on  to  be  more  precise,  but  I  omit  the 
details.  It  was  difficult  for  them  to  go  wrong, 
but  if  the  truth  is  to  be  known,  he  was  in  a  mood 
which  made  him  careless  about  that.  He  was  free. 
He  was  going  on  insensate  adventure ;  buf  he 
saw  his  road  before  him  once  again,  like  a  long 
avenue  of  light,  which  Jehane  made  for  him  with 
a  torch  uplifted.  Before  it  was  day,  armed  from 
head  to  foot  in  chain  mail,  with  a  plain  shield,  and 
a  double-bladed  Norman  axe  in  his  saddle-bucket, 
he  and  his  three  companions  set  out  on  their 
journey.  They  rode  leisurely,  with  loose  reins 
and  much  turning  in  the  saddle  to  talk,  as  if  for 
a  meet  of  the  hounds. 

Now  was  that  vernal  season  of  the  year  when 
winds  are  boon,  the  gentle  rain  never  far  off,  the 
stars  in  heaven  (like  the  flowers  on  earth)  washed 
momently  to  a  freshness  which  urges  men  to  be 
pure.  Riding  day  and  night  through  the  green 
breadth  of  France,  though  he  had  been  plucked 
from  the  roaring  pit  of  war,  Richard  (I  know) 
went  with  a  single  aim  before  him  —  to  see  Jehane 
again.  Nothing  else  in  his  heart,  I  say.  What- 
ever purpose  may  have  lurked  in  his  mind,  in  heart 
he  went  clean,  single  in  desire,  chanting  the  canti- 
cles of  Mary  and  the  Virgin  Saints.     It  was  so. 


CH.  vm  WAR  IN  THE,  "WEST    ;  >//,'';,  i,.'  i\?o^ 

He  had  been  seethed  in  wicked  doings  from  his 
boyhood — I  give  him  you  no  better  than  he  was: 
wild  work  in  Poictou,  the  scour  of  hot  blood  ; 
devil's  work  in  Touraine,  riotous  work  in  Paris, 
tyrannous  in  Aquitaine.  He  had  been  blown 
upon  by  every  ill  report ;  hatred  against  blood, 
blasphemy  against  God's  appointment,  violence, 
clamour,  scandal  against  charitable  dealing:  all 
these  were  laid  to  his  name.  He  had  behind  him 
a  file  of  dead  ancestors,  cut-throats  and  worse. 
He  had  faced  unnameable  sin  and  not  blenched, 
laughed  where  he  should  have  wept,  promised  and 
broken  his  promise ;  to  be  short,  he  had  been  a 
creature  of  his  house  and  time,  too  young  ac- 
quainted with  pride  and  too  proud  himself  to  deny 
it.  But  now,  with  eyes  alight  like  a  boy's  because 
his  heart  was  uplift,  he  was  riding  between  the  new- 
budded  woods,  the  melodies  of  a  singing-boy  on 
his  lips,  and  swaying  before  his  heart's  eye  the 
figure  of  a  tall  girl  with  green  eyes  and  a  sulky, 
beautiful  mouth.  '  Lord,  what  is  man  ? '  cried  the 
Psalmist  in  dejection.  '  Lord,  what  is  man  not } ' 
cry  we,  who  know  more  of  him. 

His  traverse  took  him  four  days  and  nights. 
He  rested  at  La  Ferte,  at  Nogent-le-Rotrou,  out- 
side Dreux,  and  at  Rosny.  Here  he  stayed  a  day, 
the  Vigil  of  the  Feast  of  Palms.  He  had  it  in 
his  mind  not  to  see  Jehane  again  until  the  very 
moment  when  he  might  lose  her. 


CHAPTER   IX 

WILD  WORK  IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  GISORS 

When  in  March  the  chase  is  up,  and  the  hunting 
wind  searches  out  the  fallow  places  of  the  earth, 
love  also  comes  questing,  desire  is  awake;  man 
seeks  maid,  and  maid  seeks  to  be  sought  If  man 
or  maid  have  loved  already  the  case  is  worse ;  we 
hear  love  crying,  but  cannot  tell  where  he  is,  how 
or  with  what  honesty  to  let  him  in.  All  those 
ranging  days  Jehane  —  whether  in  bed  cuddling 
her  letters,  or  at  the  window  of  her  tower,  watching 
with  brimmed  eyes  the  pairing  of  the  birds  — 
showed  a  proud  front  of  sufferance,  while  inly  her 
heart  played  a  wild  tune.  Not  a  crying  girl,  nor 
one  capable  of  any  easy  utterance,  she  could  do 
no  more  than  stand  still,  and  wonder  why  she  was 
most  glad  when  most  wretched.  She  ought  to 
have  felt  the  taint,  to  love  the  man  who  had  slain 
her  brother;  she  might  have  known  despair:  she 
did  neither.  She  sat  or  stood,  or  lay  in  her  bed, 
and  pressed  to  her  heart  with  both  hands  the  words 
that  said,  '  Never  doubt  me,  Jehane,'  or  '  Ma  mye, 
I  shall  come  to  you.'  When  he  came,  as  he  surely 
would,  he  would  find  her  a  wife  —  ah,  let  him 
come,  let  him  come  in  his  time,  so  only  she  saw 
him  again ! 

March  went  out  in  dusty  squalls,  and   April 
came  in  to  the  sound  of  the  young  lamb's  bleat. 


CH.  IX  WILD  WORK  103 

Willow-palm  was  golden  in  the  hedges  when  the 
King  of  England's  men  filled  Normandy,  and 
Gilles  de  Gurdun,  having  been  healed  of  his 
wounds,  rode  towards  Rouen  at  the  head  of  his 
levy.  He  went  not  without  an  understanding 
with  Saint-Pol  that  he  should  have  his  sister  on 
Palm  Sunday  in  the  church  of  Gisors.  They 
could  not  marry  at  Saint-Pol-la-Marche,  because 
Gilles  was  on  his  service  and  might  not  win  so  far ; 
nor  could  they  have  married  before  he  went, 
because  of  his  ill-treatment  at  the  hands  of  the 
Bearnais.  Of  this  Gilles  had  made  light.  *  He 
got  v/orse  than  he  gave,'  he  told  Saint-Pol.  '  I 
left  him  dead  in  the  wood.' 

'  Would  you  see  Jehane,  Gilles  ? '  Saint-Pol 
had  asked  him  before  he  went  out.  *  She  is  in 
her  turret  as  meek  as  a  mouse.' 

*  Time  enough  for  that,'  said  Gilles  quietly. 
*  She  loves  me  not.  But  I,  Eustace,  love  her 
so  hot  that  I  have  fear  of  myself.  I  think  I  will 
not  see  her.' 

'  As  you  will,'  said  Saint-Pol.     *  Farewell.' 

In  Gisors,  then  a  walled  town,  trembling  like  a 
captive  at  the  knees  of  a  huge  castle,  there  was  a 
long  grey  church  which  called  Saint  Sulpice  lord. 
It  stood  in  a  little  square  midway  between  the 
South  Gate  and  the  citadel,  a  narrow  oblong  place 
where  they  held  the  cattle  market  on  Tuesdays, 
flagged  and  planted  with  pollard-limes.  The 
west  door  of  Saint  Sulpice,  resting  on  a  stepped 
foundation,  formed  a  solemn  end  to  this  humble 
space,  and  the  great  gable  flanked  by  turrets 
threatened  the  huddled  tenements  of  the  craftsmen. 
On  this  morning  of    Palm  Sunday    the   shaven 


104  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

crowns  of  the  limes  were  budded  gold  and  pink, 
the  sky  a  fair  sea-blue  over  Gisors,  with  a  scurrying 
fleece  of  clouds  like  foam ;  the  poplars  about  the 
meadows  were  in  their  first  flush,  all  the  quicksets 
veiled  in  green.  The  town  was  early  afoot,  for 
the  wedding  party  of  the  Sieur  de  Gurdun  was  to 
come  in ;  and  Gurdun  belonged  to  the  Archbishop, 
and  the  Archbishop  to  the  Duke.  The  bride  also 
was  reported  unwilling,  which  added  zest  to  the 
public  appetite  for  her  known  beauty.  Some 
knew  for  truth  that  she  was  the  cast-off  mis- 
tress of  a  very  great  man,  driven  into  Gurdun's 
arms  to  dispose  of  scandal  and  of  her.  '  Eh,  the 
minion ! '  said  certain  sniggering  old  women  to 
whom  this  was  told,  '  she'll  not  find  so  soft  a  lap 
at  Gurdun ! '  But  others  said,  *  Gurdun  is  the. 
Duke's,  and  will  one  day  be  the  Duke's  son's. 
What  will  Sieur  Gilles  do  then  with  his  straining 
wife  ?  You  cannot  keep  your  hawk  on  the  cadge 
for  ever  —  ah,  nor  hood  her  for  ever  ! '  And  so 
on. 

All  this  points  to  some  public  excitement. 
The  town  gate  was  opened  full  early,  the  booths 
about  it  did  a  great  trade;  at  a  quarter  before 
seven  Sir  Gilles  de  Gurdun  rode  in,  with  his  father 
on  his  right  hand,  the  prior  of  Rouen  on  his  left, 
and  half  a  dozen  of  his  kindred,  fair  and  solid 
men  all.  They  were  lightly  armed,  clothed  in 
soft  leather,  without  shields  or  any  heavy  war- 
furniture  :  old  Gurdun  a  squarely  built,  red-faced 
man  like  his  son,  but  with  a  bush  of  white  hair  all 
about  his  face,  and  eyebrows  like  curved  snow- 
drifts ;  the  prior  (old  Gurdun's  brother's  son) 
with  a   big   nose,   long  and   pendulous;    Gilles^ 


CH.K  WILD  WORK  105 

brother  Bartholomew,  and  others  whom  it 
would  be  tedious  to  mention.  Gilles  himself 
looked  well  knit  for  the  business  in  hand ;  all  the 
old  women  agreed  that  he  would  make  a  master- 
ful husband.  They  stabled  their  horses  in  the 
inn-yard,  and  went  into  the  church  porch  to  await 
the  bride's  party. 

A  trumpet  at  the  gate  announced  her  coming. 
She  rode  on  a  little  ambling  horse  beside  her 
brother  Saint-Pol.  With  them  were  the  porten- 
tous old  lady,  Dame  Gudule,  William  des  Barres, 
a  very  fine  French  knight,  Nicholas  d'Eu,  and  a 
young  boy  called  Eloy  de  Mont-Luc,  a  cousin  of 
Jehane's,  to  bear  her  train.  The  gossips  at  the 
gate  called  her  a  wooden  bride ;  others  said  she 
was  like  a  doll,  a  big  doll ;  and  others  that  they 
read  in  her  eyes  the  scorn  of  death.  She  took  no 
notice  of  anything  or  anybody,  but  looked  straight 
before  her  and  followed  where  she  was  led.  This 
was  straightway  into  the  church  by  her  brother, 
who  had  her  by  the  hand  and  seemed  in  a  great 
hurry.  The  marriage  was  to  be  made  in  the 
Lady  Chapel,  behind  the  high  altar. 

Twenty  minutes  later  yet,  or  maybe  a  little  less, 
there  was  another  surging  to  the  gate  about  the 
arrival  of  four  knights,  who  came  posting  in, 
spattered  with  mud  and  the  sweat  and  lather  of 
their  horses.  ^They  were  quite  unknown  to  the 
people  of  Gisors,  but  seen  for  great  men,  as  indeed 
they  were.  Richard  of  Anjou  was  the  first  of 
them,  a  young  man  of  inches  incredible  to  Gisors. 
*  He  had  a  face  like  King  Arthur's  of  Britain,' 
says  one :  '  A  red  face,  a  tawny  beard,  eyes  like 
stones.'     Behind  him  were  three  abreast:  Rous- 


io6        (  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

sillon,  a  grim,  dark,  heavy-eyed  man,  bearded  like 
a  Turk;  Beziers,  sanguine  and  loose-limbed,  a 
man  with  a  sharp  tongue ;  Gaston  of  Beam,  airy 
hunter  of  fine  phrases,  looking  now  like  the  prince 
of  a  fairy-tale,  with  roving  eyes  all  a-scare  for 
adventure.  The  warders  of  the  gate  received 
them  with  a  flourish.  They  knew  nothing  of 
them,  but  were  certain  of  their  degree. 

By  preconcerted  action  they  separated  there. 
Roussillon  and  Beziers  sat  like  statues  within  the 
gate,  one  on  each  side  of  the  way,  actually  upon 
the  bridge ;  and  so  remained,  the  admired  of  all 
the  booths.  Gaston,  like  a  yeoman-pricker  in  this 
hunting  of  the  roe,  went  with  Richard  to  the  edge 
of  the  covert,  that  is,  to  the  steps  of  Saint  Sulpice, 
and  stood  there  holding  his  master's  horse.  What 
remained  to  be  done  was  done  with  extreme  swift- 
ness. Richard  alone,  craning  his  head  forward, 
stooping  a  little,  swaying  his  scabbarded  sword 
in  his  hand,  went  with  long  soft  strides  into  the 
church. 

At  the  entry  he  kneeled  on  one  knee,  and 
looked  about  him  from  under  his  brows.  Three 
or  four  masses  were  proceeding ;  out  of  the  semi- 
darkness  shone  the  little  twinkling  lights,  and 
illuminated  faintly  the  kneeling  people,  a  priest's 
vestment,  a  silver  chalice.  But  here  was  neither 
marriage  nor  Jehane.  He  got  up  presently,  and 
padded  down  the  nave,  kneeling  to  every  altar 
as  he  went.  Many  an  eye  followed  him  as  he 
pushed  on  and  past  the  curtain  of  the  ambulatory. 
They  guessed  him  for  the  wedding,  and  so  (God 
knows)  he  was.  In  the  shadow  of  a  great  pillar 
he  stopped  short,  and  again  went  down  on  his 


CH.  IX  WILD   WORK  107 

knee;  from  here  he  could  see  the  business  in 
train. 

He  saw  Jehane  at  prayer,  in  green  and  white, 
kneeling  at  her  faldstool  like  a  painted  lady  on  an 
altar  tomb ;  he  just  saw  the  pure  curve  of  her 
cheek,  the  coiled  masses  of  her  hair,  which  seemed 
to  burn  it.  All  the  world  with  the  lords  thereof 
was  at  his  feet,  but  this  treasure  which  he  had 
held  and  put  away  was  denied  him.  By  his  own 
act  she  was  denied.  He  had  said  Yea,  when  Nay 
had  been  the  voice  of  heart  and  head,  of  honour 
and  love  and  reason  at  once ;  and  now  (close  up 
against  her)  he  knew  that  he  was  to  forbid  his 
own  grant.  He  knew  it,  I  say;  but  until  he 
saw  her  there  he  had  not  clearly  known  it.  Go 
on,  I  will  show  you  the  deeps  of  the  man  for  good 
or  bad.  Not  lust  of  flesh,  but  of  dominion, 
ravened  in  him.  This  woman,  this  Jehane  Saint- 
Pol,  this  hot-haired  slip  of  a  girl  was  his.  The 
leopard  had  laid  his  paw  upon  her  shoulder,  the 
mark  was  still  there ;  he  could  not  suffer  any  other 
beast  of  the  forest  to  touch  that  which  he  had 
printed  with  his  own  mark,  for  himself. 

Twi-form  is  the  leopard ;  twi-natured  was  Rich- 
ard of  Anjou,  dog  and  cat.  Now  here  was  all 
cat.  Not  the  wolfs  lust,  but  the  lion's  jealous 
rage  spurred  him  to  the  act.  He  could  see  this 
beautiful  thing  of  flesh  without  any  longing  to 
lick  or  tear;  he  could  have  seen  the  frail  soul  of 
it,  but  half-born,  sink  back  into  the  earth  out  of 
sight;  he  could  have  killed  Jehane  or  made  her 
as  his  mother  to  him.  But  he  could  not  see  one 
other  get  that  which  was  his.  His  by  all  heaven 
she  was.      When   Gurdun  squared  himself  and 


io8  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

puffed  his  cheeks,  and  stood  up ;  when  Jehane, 
touched  by  Saint-Pol  on  the  shoulder,  shivered 
and  left  staring,  and  stood  up  in  turn,  swaying  a 
little,  and  held  out  her  thin  hand ;  when  the  priest 
had  the  ring  on  his  book,  and  the  two  hands,  the 
red  and  the  white,  trembled  to  the  touch  — \  Rich- 
ard rose  from  his  knee  and  stole  forward  with  his 
long,  soft,  crouching  stride. 

So  softly  he  trod  that  the  priest,  old  and  blear- 
eyed  as  he  was,  saw  him  first:  the  others  had 
heard  nothing.  With  Jehane's  hand  in  his  own, 
the  priest  stopped  and  blinked.  Who  was  this 
prowler,  afoot  when  all  else  were  on  their  knees  ? 
His  jaw  dropped ;  you  saw  that  he  was  toothless. 
Inarticulate  sounds,  crackling  and  dry,  came  from 
his  throat.  Richard  had  stopped  too,  tense,  quiv- 
ering for  a  spring.  The  priest  gave  a  prodigious 
sniff,  turned  to  his  book,  looked  up  again:  the 
crouching  man  was  still  there  —  but  imminent. 
'  Wine  of  Jesus ! '  said  the  priest,  and  dropped 
Jehane's  hand.  Then  she  turned.  She  gave  a 
short  cry;  the  whole  assembly  started  and 
huddled  together  as  the  mailed  man  made  his 
spring. 

It  was  done  in  a  flash.  From  his  crouched 
attitude  he  went,  as  it  seemed,  at  one  bound. 
That  same  shock  drove  Gilles  de  Gurdun  back 
among  his  people,  and  the  same  found  Jehane 
caged  in  a  hoop  of  steel.  So  he  affronting  and 
she  caught  up  stood  together,  for  a  moment. 
With  one  mailed  hand  he  held  her  fast  under 
the  armpit,  with  the  other  he  held  a  fidgety 
sword.  His  head  was  thrown  back;  through 
glimmering  eyelids  he  watched   them  —  as   one 


CH.  IX  WILD  WORK  109 

who  says,  What  next  ?  —  breathing  short  through 
his  nose.  It  was  the  attitude  of  the  snatching 
Hon,  sudden,  arrogant,  shockingly  swift ;  a  gross 
deed,  done  in  a  flash  which  was  its  wonderful 
beauty.  While  the  company  was  panting  at  the 
shock — for  barely  a  minute  —  he  stood  thus;  and 
Jehane,  quiet  under  so  fierce  a  hold,  leaned  not 
upon  him,  but  stood  her  own  feet  fairly,  her  calm 
brows  upon  a  level  with  his  chin.  Shameful  if 
it  was,  at  that  moment  of  rude  conquest  she  had 
no  shame,  and  he  no  thought  of  shame. 

Nor  was  there  much  time  for  thought  at  all. 
Gurdun  cried  on  the  name  of  God  and  started 
forward;  at  the  same  instant  Saint-Pol  made  a 
rush,  and  with  him  Des  Barres.  Richard,  with 
Jehane  held  close,  went  backwards  on  the  way  he 
had  come  in.  His  long  arm  and  long  sword  kept 
his  distance;  he  worked  them  like  a  scythe. 
None  tackled  him  there,  though  they  followed 
him  up  as  dogs  a  boar  in  the  forest;  but  old 
Gurdun,  the  father,  ran  round  the  other  way  to 
hold  the  west  door.  Richard,  having  gained  the 
nave  and  open  country  (as  it  were),  went  swiftly 
down  it,  carrying  Jehane  with  ease ;  he  found  the 
strenuous  old  man  before  the  door.  '  Out  of 
my  way,  De  Gurdun,'  he  cried  in  a  high  singing 
voice,  'or  I  shall  do  that  which  I  shall  be  sorry 
for.' 

*  Bloody  thief,'  shouted  old  Gurdun, '  add  murder 
to  the  rest ! '  Richard  stretched  his  sword  arm 
Stiffly  and  swept  him  aside.  He  tumbled  back ; 
the  crowd  received  him  —  priests,  choristers,  peas- 
ants, knights,  all  huddled  together,  baying  like 
dogs.     Count  Richard  strode  down  the  steps. 


no  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  -      bk.  i 

*  Alavi !  Alavia ! '  sang  Gaston,  *  this  is  a  swift 
marriage  ! '  Richard,  cooler  than  circumstances 
warranted,  set  Jehane  on  his  saddle,  vaulted  up 
behind  her,  and  as  his  pursuers  were  tumbling 
down  the  steps,  cantered  over  the  flags  into  the 
street.  Roussillon  and  Beziers,  holding  the  bridge, 
saw  him  come.  *  He  has  snatched  his  Sabine 
woman,'  said  Beziers.  *  Humph,'  said  Roussillon ; 
*  now  for  beastly  war.'  Richard  rode  straight 
between  them  at  a  hand-gallop ;  Gaston  followed 
close,  cheering  his  beast  like  a  maniac.  Then  the 
iron  pair  turned  inwards  and  rode  out  together, 
taking  the  way  he  led  them,  the  way  of  the  Dark 
Tower. 

The  wonder  of  Gisors  was  all  dismay  when  it 
was  learned  who  this  tall  stranger  was.  The 
Count  of  Poictou  had  ridden  into  his  father's 
country  and  robbed  his  father's  man  of  his  wife. 
We  are  ruled  by  devils  in  Normandy,  then ! 
There  was  no  immediate  pursuit.  Saint-Pol  knew 
where  to  find  him ;  but  (as  he  told  William  des 
Barres)  it  was  useless  to  go  there  without  some 
force. 


CHAPTER   X 

NIGHT-WORK  BY  THE  DARK  TOWER 

I  CHRONICLE  wild  doings  in  this  place,  and  have 
no  time  for  the  sweets  of  love  long  denied.  But 
strange  as  the  bridal  had  been,  so  the  nuptials 
were  strange,  one  like  the  other  played  to  a  steel 
undertone.  When  Richard  had  his  Jehane,  at 
first  he  could  not  enjoy  her.  He  rode  away  with 
her  like  a  storm;  the  way  was  long,  the  pace 
furious.  Not  a  word  had  passed  between  them, 
at  least  not  a  reasoned  wordc  Once  or  twice  at 
first  he  leaned  forward  over  her  shoulder  and 
set  his  cheek  to  her  glowing  cheek.  Then  she, 
as  if  swayed  by  a  tide,  strained  back  to  him,  and 
felt  his  kisses  hot  and  eager,  his  few  and  pelt- 
ing words,  *  My  bride  —  at  last  —  my  bride  ! '  and 
the  pressure  of  his  hand  upon  her  heart.  That 
hand  knows  what  tune  the  heart  drummed  out. 
Mostly  she  sat  up  before  him  stiff  as  a  sapling, 
with  eyes  and  ears  wide  for  any  hint  of  pursuit. 
But  he  felt  her  tremble,  and  knew  she  would  be 
glad  of  him  yet. 

After  all,  they  had  six  burning  days  for  a 
honeymoon,  days  which  made  those  three  who 
with  them  held  the  tower  wonder  how  such  a 
match  could  continue.  Richard's  love  rushed 
through  him  like  a  river  in  flood,  that  brims  its 
banks  and   carries   down    bridges    by  its    turbid 

III 


112  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

mass ;  but  hers  was  like  the  sea,  unresting,  ebb- 
ing, flowing,  without  aim  or  sure  direction.  As 
is  usual  with  reserved  persons,  Jehane's  trans- 
ports, far  from  assuaging,  tormented  her,  or 
seemed  a  torment.  She  loved  uneasily,  by  hot 
and  cold  fits ;  now  melting,  now  dry,  now  fierce 
in  demand,  next  passionate  in  refusal.  To  snatch 
of  love  succeeded  repulsion  of  love.  She  would 
fling  herself  headlong  into  Richard's  arms,  and 
sob  there,  feverish;  then,  as  suddenly,  struggle 
for  release,  as  one  who  longs  to  hide  herself,  and 
finding  that  refused,  lie  motionless  like  a  woman 
of  wax.  Whether  embraced  or  not,  out  of  touch 
with  him  she  was  desperate.  She  could  not  bear 
that,  but  sought  (unknown  to  him)  to  have  hold 
of  some  part  of  him  —  the  edge  of  his  tunic,  the 
tip  of  his  sword,  his  glove  —  something  she  must 
have.  Without  it  she  sat  quivering,  throbbing 
all  over,  looking  at  him  from  under  her  brows 
and  biting  her  dumb  lips.  If  at  such  a  time 
as  this  some  other  addressed  her  the  word  (as, 
to  free  her  from  her  anguish,  one  would  some- 
times do),  she  would  perhaps  answer  him.  Yes 
or  No,  but  nothing  more.  Usually  she  would 
shake  her  head  impatiently,  as  if  all  the  world 
and  its  affairs  (like  a  cloud  of  flies)  were  buzz- 
ing about  her,  shutting  out  sound  or  sight  of 
her  Richard.  Love  like  this,  so  deep,  outwardly 
still,  inwardly  ravening  (because  insatiable),  is  a 
dreadful  thing.  No  one  who  saw  Jehane  with 
Richard  in  those  days  could  hope  for  the  poor 
girl's  happiness.  As  for  him,  he  was  more  ex- 
pansive, not  at  all  tortured  by  love,  master  of 
that  as  of  everything  else.     He  teased  her  after 


CH.x  NIGHT-WORK  113 

the  first  day,  pinched  her  ear,  held  her  by  the 
chin.  He  used  his  strange  powers  against  her; 
stole  up  on  his  noiseless  feet,  caught  her  hands 
behind  her,  held  her  fast,  and  pulled  her  back 
to  be  kissed.  Once  he  lifted  her  up,  a  sure 
prisoner,  to  the  top  shelf  of  a  cupboard,  whence 
there  was  no  escape  but  by  the  way  she  had 
gone.  She  stayed  there  quite  silent,  and  when 
he  opened  the  cupboard  doors  was  found  in  the 
same  tremulous,  expectant  state,  her  eyes  still 
fixed  upon  him.  Neither  he  nor  she,  publicly  at 
least,  discussed  the  past,  the  present  or  future; 
but  it  was  known  that  he  meant  to  make  her 
his  Countess  as  soon  as  he  could  reach  Poic- 
tiers.  To  the  onlookers,  at  any  rate  to  one  of 
them,  it  seemed  that  this  could  never  be,  and 
that  she  knew  very  well  that  the  hours  of  this 
sharp,  sweet,  piercing  intercourse  were  numbered. 
How  could  it  last  ?  How  could  she  find  either 
reason  or  courage  to  hope  it?  It  seemed  to 
Beziers,  on  the  watch,  that  she  was  awaiting  the 
end  already.  One  is  fretted  to  a  rag  by  waiting. 
So  Jehane  dared  not  lose  a  moment  of  Richard, 
yet  could  enjoy  not  one,  knowing  that  she  must 
soon  lose  all. 

Those  six  clear  days  of  theirs  had  been  wiselier 
spent  upon  the  west  road;  but  Richard's  desire 
outmastered  every  thought.  Having  snatched 
Jehane  from  the  very  horns  of  the  altar,  he  must 
hold  her,  make  her  his  irrevocably  at  the  first 
breathing  place.  Dealing  with  any  but  Normans, 
he  had  never  had  his  six  days.  But  the  Norman 
people,  as  Abbot  Milo  says,  *  slime-blooded,  slow- 
bellies,  are  withal  great  eaters  of  beef,  which  breeds 


114  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

in  them,  as  well  as  a  heaviness  of  motion,  a  certain 
slumbrous  rage  very  dangerous  to  mankind.  They 
crop  grief  after  grief,  chewing  the  cud  of  grievance; 
for  when  they  are  full  of  it  they  disgorge  and 
regorge  the  abhorred  sum,  and  have  stuff  for  their 
spleens  for  many  a  year.'  Even  more  than  this 
smouldering  nursed  hate  they  love  a  punctilio ; 
they  walk  by  forms,  whether  the  road  is  to  a  lady's 
heart  or  an  enemy's  throat.  And  so  Saint-Pol 
found,  and  so  Des  Barres,  Frenchmen  both  and 
fiery  young  men,  who  shook  their  fists  in  the 
faces  of  the  Gurduns  and  the  dust  of  such 
blockish  hospitallers  off  their  feet,  when  they 
saw  the  course  affairs  were  to  run.  Gilles  de 
Gurdun,  if  you  will  believe  it,  with  the  advice  of  his 
father  and  the  countenance  of  his  young  brother 
Bartholomew,  would  not  budge  an  inch  towards 
the  recovery  of  his  wife  or  her  ravisher's  punish- 
ment until  he  had  drawn  out  his  injury  fair  on 
parchment.  This  he  then  proposed  to  carry  to 
his  Duke,  old  King  Henry.  *  Thus,'  said  the 
swart  youth,  *  I  shall  be  within  the  law  of  my 
land,  and  gain  the  engines  of  the  law  on  my 
side.'     He  seemed  to  think  this  important. 

*  With  your  accursed  scruples,'  cried  Saint-Pol, 
smiting  the  table,  'you  will  gain  nothing  else. 
Within  your  country's  law,  blockhead !  Why, 
my  sister  is  within  the  Count's  country  by  this 
time ! ' 

*  Oh,  leave  him,  leave  him,  Eustace,'  said  Des 
Barres,  *and  come  with  me.  We  shall  meet  him 
in  the  fair  way  yet,  you  and  I  together.'  So  the 
Frenchmen  rode  away,  and  Gilles,  with  his  father 
and  his  parchments  and  his  square  forehead,  went 


CH.  X  NIGHT-WORK  115 

to  Evreux,  where  King  Henry  then  was.  Kneel- 
ing before  their  Duke,  expounding  their  grava- 
mens as  if  they  were  suing  out  a  writ  of  Mort 
d' Ancestor,  they  very  soon  found  out  that  he  was 
no  more  a  Norman  than  Saint-Pol.  The  old  King 
made  short  work  of  their  '  ut  predictum  ests  *  and 

*  Quaesumus  igiturs^ 

'  Good  sirs,'  says  he,  knitting  his  brows,  '  where 
is  this  lord  who  has  done  you  so  much  injury  ? ' 

*  My  lord,'  they  report, '  he  has  her  in  his  strong 
tower  on  the  plain  of  Saint- Andre,  some  ten  leagues 
from  here.* 

Then  cries  the  old  King,  *  Smoke  him  out,  you 
fools  !     What !  a  badger.     Draw  the  thief.' 

Then  Gilles  the  elder  flattened  his  lips  together 
and  afterwards  pursed  them.  '  Lord,'  he  said, 
'that  we  dare  not  do  without  your  express  com- 
mandment' 

*  Why,  why,'  snaps  the  King,  *  if  I  give  it  you, 
my  solemn  fools  } ' 

Young    Gilles    stood    up,    a    weighty    youth. 

*  Lord  Duke,'  he  said,  *  this  lord  is  the  Count 
of  Poictou,  your  son.'  It  had  been  a  fine  sight 
for  sinful  men  to  see  the  eyes  of  the  old  King 
strike  fire  at  this  word.  His  speech,  they  tell 
me,  was  terrible,  glutted  with  rage. 

'  Ha,  God!'  he  spluttered,  cracking  his  fingers, 
'  so  my  Richard  is  the  badger,  ha  ?  So  then  I 
have  him,  ha  .^  If  I  do  not  draw  him  myself,  by 
the  Face ! ' 

It  is  said  that  Longespee(a  son  of  his  by  Madame 
Rosamund)  and  Geoffrey  (another  bastard),  with 
Bohun  and  De  Lacy  and  some  more,  tried  to 
hinder  him  in  this  design,  wherein  (said  they)  he 


ii6  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

set  out  to  be  a  second  Thyestes ;  but  they  might 
as  well  have  bandied  words  with  destiny.  *  War 
is  war/  said  the  foaming  old  man,  '  whether  with 
a  son  or  a  grandmother  you  make  it.  Shall  my 
enem}^  range  the  field  and  I  sit  at  home  and  lap 
caudle  ?  That  is  not  the  way  of  my  house.'  He 
would  by  all  means  go  that  night,  and  called  for 
volunteers.  His  English  barons,  to  their  credit, 
flatly  refused  either  to  entrap  the  son  of  their 
master  or  to  abandon  the  city  at  a  time  so  criti- 
cal. '  What,  sire ! '  cried  they, '  are  private  resent- 
ments, like  threadworms,  to  fret  the  dams  of  the 
state?  The  floods  are  out,  my  lord  King,  and 
brimming  at  the  sluices.     Be  advised  therefore.' 

No  wearer  of  the  cap  of  Anjou  was  ever  ad- 
vised yet.  I  can  hear  in  fancy  the  gnashing  of 
the  old  lion's  fangs,  in  fancy  see  the  foam  he 
churned  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  He  went 
out  with  such  men  as  he  could  gather  in  his  haste, 
nineteen  of  them  in  all.  There  were  old  Gilles 
and  young  Gilles  with  their  men;  eight  of  the 
King's  own  choosing,  namely,  Drago  de  Merlou, 
Armand  Taillefer,  the  Count  of  Ponthieu,  Fulk 
Perceforest,  Fulk  D'Oilly,  Gilbert  FitzReinfrid, 
Ponce  the  bastard  of  Caen,  and  a  butcher  called 
Rolf,  to  whom  the  King,  mocking  all  chivalry, 
gave  the  gilt  spurs  before  he  started.  He  did  not 
wear  them  long.  The  nineteenth  was  that  great 
king,  bad  man,  and  worse  father,  Henry  Curtman- 
tle  himself. 

It  was  a  very  dark  night,  without  moon  or 
stars,  a  hot  and  still  night  wherein  a  man  weather- 
wise  might  smell  the  rain.  The  going  upon  the 
moor  was  none  too  good  in  a  good  light;    yet 


CH.  X  NIGHT-WORK  117 

they  tell  me  that  the  old  King  went  spurring  over 
brush  and  scrub,  over  tufted  roots,  through  ridge 
and  hollow,  with  as  much  cheer  as  if  the  hunt  was 
up  in  Venvil  Wood  and  himself  a  young  man. 
When  his  followers  besought  him  to  take  heed, 
all  he  would  do  was  snap  his  fingers,  the  reins 
dangling  loose,  and  cry  to  the  empty  night,  *  Hue, 
Brock,  hue  ! '  as  if  he  was  baiting  a  badger.  This 
badger  was  the  heir  to  his  crown  and  dignity. 

In  the  Dark  Tower  they  heard  him  coming 
three  miles  away.  Roussillon  was  on  the  battle- 
ments, and  came  down  to  report  horsemen  on  the 
plain.  *  Lights  out,'  said  Richard,  and  gave  Jehane 
a  kiss  as  he  set  her  down.  They  blew  out  all  the 
lights,  and  stood  two  to  each  door ;  no  one  spoke 
any  more.  Jehane  sat  by  the  darkened  fire  with 
a  torch  in  her  hand,  ready  to  light  it  when  she 
was  bid. 

Thus  when  the  Normans  drew  near  they  found 
the  tower  true  to  its  name,  without  a  glimmer  of 
light.  *  Let  alone  for  that,'  said  the  King,  whose 
grating  voice  they  heard  above  all  the  others ; 
*  very  soon  we  will  have  a  fire.'  He  sent  some 
of  his  men  to  gather  brushwood,  ling,  and  dead 
bracken  ;  meantime  he  began  to  beat  at  the  door 
with  his  axe,  crying  like  a  madman,  *  Richard ! 
Richard !  Thou  graceless  wretch,  come  out  of  thy 
hold.' 

Presently  a  little  window-casement  opened 
above  him;  Gaston  of  Beam  poked  out  his 
head. 

'  Beau  sire,'  he  says,  '  what  entertainment  is 
this  for  the  Count  your  son?' 

*  No  son  of  mine,  by  the    Face  I '    cried   the 


/- 


ii8  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

King.  *  Let  that  woman  I  have  caged  at  home 
answer  for  him,  who  defies  me  for  ever.  Let  me 
in,  thou  sickly  dog.' 

Gaston  said,  '  Beau  sire,  you  shall  come  in  if 
you  will,  and  if  you  come  in  peace.' 

Says  the  King,  '  I  will  come  in,  by  God,  and  as  - 
I  will.' 

'  Foul  request.  King,'  said  Gaston,  and  shut  the 
window. 

'  Have  it  as  you  will;  it  shall  be  foul  by  and 
by,'  the  King  shouted  to  the  night.  He  bid  them 
fire  the  place. 

To  be  short,  they  heaped  a  wood-stack  before 
the  door  and  set  it  ablaze.  The  crackling,  the 
tossed  flames,  the  leaping  light,  made  the  King 
drunk.  He  and  his  companions  began  capering 
about  the  fire  with  linked  arms,  hounding  each 
other  on  with  the  cries  of  countrymen  who  draw  a 
badger  —  'Loo,  loo.  Vixen!  Slip  in,  lass!  Hue, 
Brock,  hue,  hue ! '  and  similar  gross  noises,  until 
for  very  shame  Gilles  and  his  kindred  drew  apart, 
saying  to  each  other,  '  We  have  let  all  hell  loose, 
Legion  and  his  minions.'  So  the  two  companies, 
the  grievous  and  the  aggrieved,  were  separate; 
and  Richard,  seeing  this  state  of  the  case,  took 
Roussillon  and  Beziers  out  by  the  other  door,  got 
behind  the  dancers,  attacked  suddenly,  and  drove 
three  of  them  into  the  fire.  '  There,'  says  the 
chronicler,  '  the  butcher  Sir  Rolf  got  a  taste  of  his 
everlasting  torments,  there  FitzReinfrid  lay  and 
charred ;  there  Ponce  of  Caen,  ill  born,  made  a 
foul  smoke  as  became  him.'  Turning  to  go  in  | 
again,  the  three  were  confronted  with  the  Nor- 
man segregates.     Great  work  ensued  by  the  light 


CH.  X  NIGHT-WORK  1 1 9 

of  the  fire.  Gilles  the  elder  was  slain  with  an  axe, 
and  if  with  an  axe,  then  Richard  slew  him,  for 
he  alone  was  so  armed.  Gilles  the  younger  was 
wounded  in  the  thigh,  but  that  was  Roussillon's 
work ;  his  brother  Bartholomew  was  killed  by  the 
same  terrific  hitter ;  Beziers  lost  a  finger  of  his 
sword  hand,  and  indeed  the  three  barely  got  in 
with  their  lives.  The  old  King  set  up  howling 
like  a  wolf  in  famine  at  this  loss ;  what  comforted 
him  was  that  the  fire  had  eaten  up  the  southern 
door  and  disclosed  the  entry  of  the  tower  — 
Jehane  holding  up  a  torch,  and  before  her  Gas- 
ton, Richard,  and  Bertram  of  Roussillon,  their 
shields  hiding  their  breasts. 

'  Lords,'  said  Richard,  '  we  await  your  leisures.* 
None  cared  to  attack :  there  was  the  fire  to  cross, 
and  in  that  narrow  entry  three  desperate  blades. 
What  could  the  old  King  do?  He  threatened 
hell  and  death,  he  cursed  his  son  more  dreadfully, 
and  (you  may  take  it)  with  far  less  reason,  than 
Almighty  God  cursed  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 
cities  of  the  plain ;  but  Richard  made  no  answer, 
and  when,  quite  beside  himself,  the  old  man 
leaped  the  fire  and  came  hideously  on  to  the 
swords,  the  points  dropped  at  his  son's  direction. 
Almost  crying,  the  King  turned  to  his  followers. 
'  Taillefer,  will  you  see  me  dishonoured  ?  Where 
is  Ponthieu.f^  Where  is  Drago.f^'  So  at  last 
they  all  attacked  together,  coming  on  with  their 
shields  before  them,  in  a  phalanx.  This  was  a 
device  that  needs  must  fail ;  they  could  not  drive 
a  wedge  where  they  could  not  get  in  the  point. 
The  three  defending  shields  were  locked  in  the 
entry.     Two  men  fell   at   the   first   assault,  and 


I20  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

Richard's  terrible  axe  crashed  into  Perceforest's 
skull  and  scattered  his  brains  wide.  Red  and 
breathless  work  as  it  was,  it  was  not  long  adoing. 
The  King  was  dismayed  at  the  killing  of  Perce- 
forest,  and  dared  risk  no  more  lives  at  such  long 
odds.  '  Fire  the  other  door,  Drago,'  he  said 
grimly.  '  We'll  have  the  place  down  upon  them.' 
The  Normans  were  set  to  engage  the  three  while 
others  went  to  find  fuel. 

The  Viscount  of  Beziers  had  had  his  hand 
dressed  by  Jehane,  and  was  now  able  to  take  his 
turn.  It  was  by  a  ruse  of  his  that  Richard  got 
away  without  a  life  lost.  With  Jehane  to  help 
him,  he  got  the  horses  trapped  and  housed. 
'  Now,  Richard,'  he  said,  '  listen  to  my  proposals. 
I  am  going  to  open  the  north  door  and  make 
away  before  they  fire  it.  I  shall  have  half  of 
them  after  me  as  I  reckon;  but  whereas  I  shall 
have  a  good  start  on  a  fresh  horse,  I  doubt  not 
of  escape.  Do  you  manage  the  rest :  there  will 
be  three  of  you.' 

Richard  approved.  *  Go,  Raimon,'  he  said. 
*  We  will  join  you  on  the  edge  of  the  plain.' 

This  was  done.  Jehane,  when  Beziers  was 
ready,  flung  open  the  door.  Out  he  shot  like  a 
bolt,  and  she  shut  it  behind  him.  The  old  King 
got  wind  of  him,  spurred  off  with  five  or  six 
at  his  heels,  such  as  happened  to  be  mounted. 
Richard  fell  back  from  the  entry,  got  out  his 
horse,  and  came  forward.  As  he  came  he 
stooped  and  picked  up  Jehane,  who,  with  a 
quick  nestling  movement,  settled  into  his  shield 
arm.  Roussillon  and  Gaston  in  like  manner  got 
their  horses ;  then  at  a  signal  they  drove  out  of 


CH.  X  NIGHT-WORK  121 

the  tower  into  the  midst  of  the  Normans.  There 
was  a  wild  scuffle.  Richard  got  a  side  blow  on 
the  knee,  but  in  return  he  caught  Drago  de 
Merlou  under  the  armpit  and  well-nigh  cut  him 
in  half.  Taillefer  and  Gilles  de  Gurdun  set  upon 
him  together,  and  one  of  them  wounded  him  in 
the  shoulder.  But  Taillefer  got  more  than  he 
gave,  for  he  fell  almost  as  he  delivered  his  blow, 
and  broke  his  jaw  against  a  rock.  As  for 
Gurdun,  Richard  hurtled  full  into  him,  bore  him 
backwards,  and  threw  him  also.  Jehane  safe  in 
arms,  he  rode  over  him  where  he  lay.  But  lastly, 
pounding  through  the  tussocks  in  the  faint  grey 
light,  he  met  his  father  charging  full  upon  him, 
intent  to  cut  him  off.  'Avoid  me,  father,'  he 
cried  out.  '  By  God,'  said  the  King,  '  I  will  not. 
I  am  for  you,  traitorous  beast.'  They  came 
together,  and  Richard  heard  the  old  man's  breath 
roaring  like  a  foundered  horse's.  He  held  his 
sword  arm  out  stiffly  to  parry  the  blow.  The 
King's  sword  shivered  and  fell  harifiless  as  Richard 
shot  by  him.  Turning  as  he  rode  (to  be  sure  he 
had  done  him  no  more  hurt),  he  saw  the  wicked 
grey  face  of  his  father  cursing  him  beyond  redemp- 
tion ;  and  that  was  the  last  living  sight  of  it  he 
had. 

They  got  clean  away  without  the  loss  of  a  man 
of  theirs,  reached  the  lands  of  the  Count  of 
Perche,  and  there  found  a  company  of  sixty 
knights  come  out  to  look  for  Richard.  With 
them  he  rode  down  through  Maine  to  Le  Mans, 
which  had  fallen,  and  now  held  the  French  King. 
Richard's  triumphant  humour  carried  him  strange 
lengths.     As  they  came  near  to  the  gates  of  Le 


122  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Mans,  *  Now,'  he  said,  '  they  shall  see  me,  like  a 
pious  knight,  bear  my  holy  banner  before  me.' 
He  made  Jehane  stand  up  in  the  saddle  in  front 
of  him;  he  held  her  there  firmly  by  one  long 
arm.  So  he  rode  in  the  midst  of  his  knights 
through  the  thronged  streets  to  the  church  of 
Saint-Julien,  Jehane  Saint-Pol  pillared  before  him 
like  a  saint.  The  French  king  made  much  of 
him,  and  to  Jehane  was  respectful.  Prince  John 
was  there,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  the  Dauphin 
of  Auvergne,  all  the  great  men.  To  Richard  was 
given  the  Bishop's  house ;  Jehane  stayed  with  the 
Canonesses  of  Premonstre.  But  he  saw  her 
every  day. 


CHAPTER   XI 

OF  PROPHECY;    AND  JEHANE  IN  THE  PERILOUS  BED 

Well  may  the  respectable  Abbot  Milo  despond 
over  this  affair.  Hear  him,  and  conceive  how  he 
shook  his  head.  '  O  too  great  power  of  princes,' 
he  writes, '  lodged  in  a  room  too  frail !  O  wagging 
bladder  that  serves  as  cushion  for  a  crown !  O 
swayed  by  idle  breath,  seeming  god  that  yet  is  a 
man,  man  driven  by  windy  passion,  that  has  yet 
to  ape  the  god's  estate  !  Because  Richard  craved 
this  French  girl,  therefore  he  must  take  her,  as  it 
were,  from  the  lap  of  her  mother.  Because  he 
taught  her  his  nobility,  which  is  the  mere  wind  in 
a  prince's  nose,  she  taught  him  nobility  again. 
Then  because  a  prince  must  not  be  less  noble 
than  his  nobles  (but  always  primus  inter  pares), 
he,  seeing  her  nobly  disposed,  gave  her  over  to  a 
man  of  her  own  choosing ;  and  immediately  after, 
unable  to  bear  it  that  a  common  person  should 
have  what  he  had  touched,  took  her  away  again, 
doing  slaughter  to  get  her,  to  say  nothing  of  out- 
rage in  the  church.  Last  of  all,  as  you  are  now 
to  hear,  thinking  that  too  much  handling  was  dis- 
honour to  the  thin  vessel  of  her  body,  touched  on 
the  generous  spot,  he  made  bad  worse ;  he  added 
folly  to  force ;  he  made  a  marriage  where  none 
could  be ;  he  made  immortal  enmities,  blocked  up 
appointed  roads,  and  set  himself  to  walk  others 


124  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

with  a  clog  on  his  leg.  Better  far  had  she  been 
a  wanton  of  no  account,  a  piece  of  dalliance,  a 
pastime,  a  common  delight !  She  was  very  much 
other  than  that.  Dame  Jehane  was  a  good  girl, 
a  noble  girl,  a  handsome  girl  of  inches  and  bright 
blood ;  but  by  the  Lord  God  of  Israel  (Who  died 
on  the  Tree),  these  virtues  cost  her  dear.' 

All  this,  we  may  take  it,  is  true;  the  pity  is 
that  the  thing  promised  so  fair.  Those  who  had 
not  known  Jehane  before  were  astonished  at  her 
capacity,  discretion,  and  dignity.  She  had  a  part 
to  play  at  Le  Mans,  where  Richard  kept  his  Eas- 
ter, which  would  have  taxed  a  wiser  head.  She 
moved  warily,  a  poor  thing  of  gauze,  amid  those 
great  lights.  King  Philip  had  a  tender  nose  ;  a 
very  whiff  of  offence  might  have  drawn  blood. 
Prince  John  had  a  shrewd  eye  and  an  evil  way  of 
using  it;  he  stroked  women,  but  they  seldom 
liked  it,  and  never  found  good  come  of  it.  The 
Duke  of  Burgundy  ate  and  drank  too  much.  He 
resembled  a  sponge,  when  empty  too  rough  a 
customer,  when  full  too  juicy.  It  was  on  one 
of  the  days  when  he  was  very  full  that,  tilting  at 
the  ring,  he  won,  or  said  he  won,  forty  pounds  of 
Richard.  Empty,  he  claimed  them,  but  Richard 
discerned  a  rasp  in  his  manner  of  asking,  and 
laughed  at  him.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy  took 
this  ill.  He  was  never  quite  the  same  to  Richard 
again ;  but  he  made  great  friends  with  Prince  John. 

With  all  these,  and  with  their  courtiers,  who 
took  complexion  from  their  masters,  Jehane  had 
to  hold  the  fair  way.  As  a  mistress  who  was  to 
be  a  wife,  the  veiled  familiarity  with  which  she 
was  treated  was  always  preaching  to  her.     How 


CH.xi  PROPHECY  125 

dare  she  be  a  Countess  who  was  of  so  little 
account  already?  The  poor  girl  felt  herself 
doomed  beforehand.  What  king's  mistress  had 
ever  been  his  wife?  And  how  could  she  be 
Richard's  wife,  betrothed  to  Gilles  de  Gurdun? 
Richard  was  much  afield  in  these  days,  making 
military  dispositions  against  his  coming  absence 
in  Poictou.  She  saw  him  rarely ;  but  in  return 
she  saw  his  peers,  and  had  to  keep  her  head  high 
among  the  women  of  the  French  court.  And  so 
she  did  until  one  day,  as  she  was  walking  back 
from  mass  with  her  ladies,  she  saw  her  brother 
Saint-Pol  on  horseback,  him  and  William  des 
Barres.  Timidly  she  would  have  slipped  by; 
but  Saint-Pol  saw  her,  reined  up  his  horse  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  and  stared  at  her  as  if  she 
had  been  less  than  nothing  to  him.  She  felt  her 
knees  fail  her,  she  grew  vividly  red,  but  she  kept 
her  way.  After  this  terrible  meeting  she  dared 
not  leave  the  convent. 

Of  course  she  was  quite  safe.  Saint-Pol  could 
not  do  anything  against  the  conqueror  of  Tou- 
raine,  the  ally  of  his  master;  but  she  felt  tainted, 
and  had  thoughts  (not  for  the  first  time)  of  taking 
the  veil.  One  woman  had  already  taken  it ;  she 
heard  much  concerning  Madame  Alois  from  the 
Canonesses,  how  she  had  a  little  cell  at  Fonte- 
vrault  among  the  nuns  there,  how  she  shivered 
with  cold  in  the  hottest  sun,  how  she  shrieked  o' 
nights,  how  chattered  to  herself,  and  how  she 
used  a  cruel  discipline.  All  these  things  work- 
ing upon  Jehane's  mind  made  her  love  an  agony. 
Many  and  many  a  time  when  her  royal  lover 
came  to  visit  her  she  clung  to  him  with  tears, 


126  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

imploring  him  to  cast  her  off  again ;  but  the 
more  she  bewailed  the  more  he  pursued  his  end. 
In  truth  he  was  master  by  this  time,  and  utterly 
misconceived  her.  Nothing  she  might  say  or  do 
could  stay  him  from  his  intent,  which  was  to  wed 
and  afterwards  crown  her  Countess  of  Poictou. 
This  was  to  be  done  at  Pentecost,  as  the  only 
reparation  he  could  make  her. 

Not  even  what  befell  on  the  way  to  Poictiers 
for  this  very  thing  could  alter  him.  Again  he 
misread  her,  or  was  too  full  of  what  he  read  in 
himself  to  read  her  at  all.  They  left  Le  Mans  a 
fortnight  before  Pentecost  with  a  great  train  of 
lords  and  ladies,  Richard  looking  like  a  young 
god,  with  the  light  of  easy  mastery  shining  in  his 
eyes.  She,  poor  girl,  might  have  been  going  to 
the  gallows  —  and  before  the  end  of  the  journey 
would  thankfully  have  gone  there ;  and  no  won- 
der.    Listen  to  this. 

Midway  between  Chatelherault  and  Poictiers 
is  a  sandy  waste  covered  with  scrub  of  juniper 
and  wild  plum,  which  contrives  a  living  by  some 
means  between  great  bare  rocks.  It  is  a  discon- 
solate place,  believed  to  be  the  abode  of  devils 
and  other  damned  spirits.  Now,  as  they  were 
riding  over  this  desert,  picking  their  way  among 
the  boulders  at  the  discretion  of  their  animals, 
it  so  happened  that  Richard  and  Jehane  were  in 
front  by  some  forty  paces.  Riding  so,  presently 
Jehane  gave  a  short  gasping  cry,  and  almost  fell 
off  her  horse.  She  pointed  with  her  hand,  and 
*  Look,  look,  look ! '  she  said  in  a  dry  whisper. 
There  at  a  little  distance  from  them  was  a  leper, 
who  sat  scratching  himself  on  a  rock. 


CH.  XI  PROPHECY  127 

*  Ride  on,  ride  on,  my  heart,'  said  Richard ; 
but  she,  *  No,  no,  he  is  coming.  We  must  wait.' 
Her  voice  was  full  of  despair. 

The  leper  came  jumping  from  rock  to  rock, 
a  horrible  thing  of  rags  and  sores,  with  a  loose 
lower  jaw,  which  his  disease  had  fretted  to  dis- 
location. He  stood  in  their  mid  path,  in  full  sun, 
and  plucking  at  his  disastrous  eyes,  peered  upon 
the  gay  company.  By  this  time  all  the  riders  were 
clustered  together  before  him,  and  he  fingered 
them  out  one  after  another — Richard,  whom  he 
called  the  Red  Count,  Gaston,  Beziers,  Auvergne, 
Limoges,  Mercadet;  but  at  Jehane  he  pointed 
long,  and  in  a  voice  between  a  croak  and  a  clatter 
(he  had  no  palate),  said  thrice,  *  Hail  thou ! ' 

She  replied  faintly,  '  God  be  good  to  thee, 
brother.'  He  kept  his  finger  still  upon  her  as  he 
spoke  again :  every  one  heard  his  words. 

*  Beware  (he  said)  the  Count's  cap  and  the 
Count's  bed;  for  so  sure  as  thou  liest  in  either 
thou  art  wife  of  a  dead  man,  and  of  his  killer.' 
Jehane  reeled,  and  Richard  held  her  up. 

*  Begone,  thou  miserable,'  he  cried  in  his  high 
voice, '  lest  I  pity  thee  no  more.'  But  the  leper 
was  capering  away  over  the  rocks,  hopping  and 
flapping  his  arms  like  an  old  raven.  At  a  safe 
distance  he  squatted  down  and  watched  them, 
his  chin  on  his  bare  knees. 

This  frightened  Jehane  so  much  that  in  the 
refectory  of  a  convent,  where  they  stayed  the 
night,  she  could  hardly  see  her  victual  for  tears, 
nor  eat  it  for  choking  grief.  She  exhausted  her- 
self by  entreaties.  Milo  says  that  she  was  heard 
crying  out  at  Richard  night  after  night,  conjur- 


128  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ; 

ing  him  by  Christ  on  the  Cross,  and  Mary  at  the 
foot  of  the  Cross,  not  to  turn  love  into  a  stabbing 
blade;  but  all  to  no  purpose.  He  soothed  and 
'petted  her,  he  redoubled  her  honours,  he  com- 
pelled her  to  love  him  ;  and  the  more  she  agonised 
the  more  he  was  confident  he  would  right  her. 

Very  definitely  and  with  unexampled  profusion 
he  provided  for  her  household  and  estate  as  soon 
as  he  was  at  home.  Kings'  daughters  were  among 
her  honourable  women,  at  least,  counts'  daughters, 
daughters  of  viscounts  and  castellans.  She  had 
Lady  Saill  of  Ventadorn,  Lady  Elis  of  Mont- 
fort,  Lady  Tibors,  Lady  Maent,  Lady  Beatrix,  all 
fully  as  noble,  and  two  of  them  certainly  more 
beautiful  than  she.  Lady  Saill  and  Lady  Elis 
were  the  most  lovely  women  of  Aquitaine,  Saill 
with  a  face  like  a  flame,  Elis  clear  and  cold  as 
spring  water  in  the  high  rocks.  He  gave  her  a 
chancellor  of  her  seal,  a  steward  of  the  household, 
a  bishop  for  chaplain.  Viscount  Ebles  of  Venta- 
dorn was  her  champion,  and  Bertran  de  Born 
(who  had  been  doing  secret  mischief  in  the  south, 
as  you  will  learn  by  and  by),  if  you  will  believe 
it,  Bertran  de  Born  was  forgiven  and  made  her 
trobador.  It  was  at  a  great  Court  of  Love  which 
Richard  caused  to  be  held  in  the  orchards 
outside  Poictiers,  with  pavilions  and  a  Chastel 
d'Amors,  that  Bertran  came  in  and  was  forgiven 
for  the  sake  of  his  great  singing.  On  a  white 
silk  tribune  before  the  castle  sat  Jehane,  in  a 
red  gown,  upon  her  golden  head  a  circlet  of  dull 
silver,  with  the  leaves  and  thorns  which  made 
up  the  coronet  of  a  countess.  Richard  bade  sound 
the  silver  trumpets,  and  his  herald  proclaim  her 


CH.  XI  PROPHECY  129 

three  times,  to  the  north,  to  the  east,  and  to  the 
south,  as  '  the  most  puissant  and  peerless  princess, 
Madame  Jehane,  by  the  grace  of  God  Countess  oi 
Poictou,  Duchess  of  Aquitaine,  consort  of  our  illus- 
trious dread  lord  Monsire  Richard,  Count  and 
Duke  of  the  same.'  Himself,  gloriously  attired  in  a 
bliaut  of  white  velvet  and  gold,  with  a  purple  cloak 
over  his  shoulder,  sustained  in  a  tenzon  with  the 
chief  trobadors  of  Languedoc,  that  she  was  *  the 
most  pleasant  lovely  lady  now  on  earth,  or  ever 
known  there  since  the  days  of  Madame  Dido, 
Queen  of  Carthage,  and  Madame  Cleopatra,  Em- 
press of  Babylon '  —  unfortunate  examples  both,  as 
some  thought. 

Minstrels  and  poets  of  the  greatest  contended 
with  him ;  Saill  had  her  champion  in  Guillem  of 
Cabestaing,  Elis  in  Girault  of  Borneilh ;  the  Dau- 
phin of  Auvergne  sang  of  Tibors,  and  Peire  Vidal 
of  Lady  Maent.  Towards  the  end  came  sideways 
in  that  dishevelled  red  fox  (whom  nothing  shamed), 
Bertran  de  Born  himself,  looked  askance  at  the 
Count,  puffed  out  his  cheeks  to  give  himself  as- 
surance, and  began  to  sing  of  Jehane  in  a  way  that 
brought  tears  to  Richard's  eyes.  It  was  Bertran 
who  dubbed  her  with  the  name  she  ever  after- 
wards went  by  throughout  Poictou  and  the  south, 
the  name  of  Bel  Vezer.  Richard  at  the  end  clipped 
him  in  his  arms,  and  with  one  arm  still  round  his 
wicked  neck  led  him  to  the  tribune  where  Jehane 
sat  blushing.  '  Take  him  into  your  favour.  Lady 
Bel  Vezer,'  he  said  to  her.  '  Whatever  his  heart 
may  be,  he  hath  a  golden  tongue.*  Jehane,  stoop- 
ing, lent  him  her  cheek,  and  Bertran  fairly  kissed 
her  whom  he  had  sought  to  undo.    Then  turning, 


I30  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

fired  with  her  favour,  he  let  his  shrill  voice  go 
spiring  to  heaven  in  her  praise. 

For  these  feats  Bertran  was  appointed  to  her 
household,  as  I  have  said.  He  made  no  secret  of 
his  love  for  her,  but  sang  of  her  night  and  day,  and 
delighted  Richard's  generous  heart.  But  indeed 
Jehane  won  the  favour  of  'most.  If  she  was  not 
so  beautiful  as  Saill,  she  was  more  courteous,  if 
not  so  pious  as  Elis,  more  the  woman  for  that. 
There  were  many,  misled  by  her  petulant  lips 
and  watchful  eyes,  to  call  her  sulky:  these  did  not 
judge  her  silence  favourably.  They  thought  her 
cold,  and  so  she  was  to  all  but  one ;  their  eyes 
might  have  told  them  what  she  was  to  him,  and 
how  when  they  met  in  love,  to  kiss  or  cling,  their 
two  souls  burned  together.  And  if  she  made  a 
sweet  lover,  she  promised  to  be  a  rare  Countess. 
Her  judgment  was  never  at  fault ;  she  was  noble, 
and  her  sedate  gravity  showed  her  to  be  so.  She 
was  no  talker,  and  had  great  command  over  her- 
self; but  she  was  more  pale  than  by  ordinary,  and 
her  eyes  were  burning  bright.  The  truth,  was, 
she  was  in  a  fever  of  apprehension,  restless, 
doomed,  miserable;  devouringly  in  love,  yet 
dreading  to  be  loved.  So,  more  and  more  evi- 
dently in  pain,  she  walked  her  part  through  the 
blare  of  festival  as  Pentecost  drew  nigh. 

'  Upon  that  day,'  to  quote  the  mellifluous 
abbot,  'Upon  that  day  when  in  leaping  tongues 
the  Spirit  of  God  sat  upon  the  heads  of  the  Holy 
Apostles,  and  gave  letters  to  the  unlettered  and 
to  the  speechless  Its  own  nature.  Count  Richard 
wedded  Dame  Jehane,  and  afterwards  crowned  her 
Countess  with  his  own  hands. 


CH.  XI  PROPHECY  131 

*  They  put  her,  crying  bitterly,  into  the  Count's 
bed  in  the  Castle  of  Poictiers  on  the  evening  of  the 
same  feast.  Weeping  also,  but  at  a  later  day,  I 
saw  her  crowned  again  at  Angers  with  the  Count's 
cap  of  Anjou.  So  to  right  her  and  himself  Count 
Richard  did  both  the  greatest  wrong  of  all.' 

Much  more  pageantry  followed  the  marriage. 
I  admire  Milo's  account.  '  He  held  a  tournament 
after  this,  when  the  Count  and  the  party  of  the 
castle  maintained  the  field  against  all  comers. 
There  was  great  jousting  for  six  days,  I  assure 
you ;  for  I  saw  the  whole  of  it.  No  English 
knights  were  there,  nor  any  from  Anjou ;  but  a 
few  French  (without  King  Philip's  goodwill),  many 
Gascons  and  men  of  Toulouse  and  the  Limousin ; 
some  from  over  the  mountains,  from  Navarre,  and 
Santiago,  and  Castile ;  there  also  came  the  Count 
of  Champagne  with  his  friends.  King  Sancho  of 
Navarre  was  excessively  friendly,  with  a  gift  of 
six  white  stallions,  all  housed,  for  Dame  Jehane ; 
nobody  knew  why  or  wherefore  at  the  time,  except 
Bertran  de  Born  (O  thief  unrepentant !). 

'  Countess  Jehane,  with  her  ladies,  being  set  in  a 
great  balcony  of  red  and  white  roses,  herself  all  in  > 
rose-coloured  silk  with  a  chaplet  of  purple  flowers, 
the  first  day  came  Count  Richard  in  green  armour 
and  a  surcoat  of  the  same  embroidered  with  a 
naked  man,  a  branch  of  yellow  broom  in  his 
helm.  None  held  up  against  him  that  day ;  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy  fell  and  brake  his  collar-bone. 
The  second  day  he  drove  into  the  melee  suddenly, 
when  there  was  a  great  press  of  spears,  all  in  red 
with  a  flaming  sun  on  his  breast.  He  sat  a  blood- 
horse  of  Spain,  bright  chestnut  colour  and  housed 


132  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

in  red.  Then,  I  tell  you,  we  saw  horses  and  men 
sunder  their  loves.  The  third  day  Pedro  de 
Vaqueiras,  a  knight  from  Santiago,  encountered 
him  in  his  silver  armour,  when  he  rode  a  horse 
white  as  the  Holy  Ghost.  By  a  chance  blow  the 
Spaniard  bore  him  back  on  to  the  crupper.  There 
was  a  great  shout,  "  The  Count  is  down  I  Look 
to  the  castle,  Poictou  ! "  Dame  Jehane  turned 
colour  of  ash,  for  she  remembered  the  leper's 
prophecy,  and  knew  that  De  Vaqueiras  loved  her. 
But  Richard  recovered  himself  quickly,  crying, 
"  Have  at  you  again,  Don  Pedro."  So  they 
brought  fresh  spears,  and  down  went  De  Vaqueiras 
on  his  back,  his  horse  upon  him.  To  be  plain, 
not  Hector  raging  over  the  field  with  shouts  for 
Achilles,  nor  flamboyant  Achilles  spying  after 
Hector,  nor  Hannibal  at  Cannae,  Roland  in  the 
woody  pass  of  Roncesvalles,  nor  the  admired 
Lancelot,  nor  Tristram  dreadful  in  the  Cornish 
isle — not  one  of  these  heroes  was  more  gloriously 
mighty  than  Count  Richard.  Like  the  war-horse 
of  Job  (the  prophet  and  afflicted  man)  he  stamped 
with  his  foot  and  said  among  the  captains  "ha 
ha !  "  His  nostrils  scented  the  battle  from  very 
far  off ;  he  set  on  like  the  quarrell  of  a  bow,  and 
gathering  force  as  he  went,  came  rocking  into  his 
adversary  like  galley  against  galley.  With  all 
this  he  was  gentle,  had  a  pleasant  laugh.  It  was 
good  to  be  struck  down  by  such  a  man,  if  it  ever 
can  be  good.  He  bore  away  opposition  as  he 
bore  away  the  knights.' 

If  one  half  of  this  were  true,  and  no  man  in 
steel  could  withstand  him,  how  could  circum- 
stance, how  could  she,  this  slim  and  frightened 


CH.  XI  PROPHECY  133 

girl  ?  Mad  indeed  with  love  and  pride,  quite  be- 
side herself,  she  forgot  for  once  her  tremors  and 
qualms.  On  the  last  day  she  fell  panting  upon 
his  breast ;  and  he,  a  great  lover,  kissed  her  be- 
fore them  all,  and  lifted  her  high  in  his  hands 
'  Oyez,  my  lords  ! '  he  cried  with  a  mighty  voice, 
*  Is  this  a  lovely  wife  I  have  won,  or  not  ? '  They 
answered  him  with  a  shout. 

He  took  her  a  progress  about  his  country  after- 
wards. From  Poictiers  they  went  to  Limoges, 
thence  westward  to  Angoulesme,  and  south  to 
Perigueux,  to  Bazas,  to  Cahors,  Agen,  even  to 
Dax,  which  is  close  to  the  country  of  the  King 
of  Navarre.  Wherever  he  led  her  she  was  hailed 
with  joy.  Young  girls  met  her  with  flowers  in 
their  hands,  wise  men  came  kneeling,  offering  the 
keys  of  their  towns ;  the  youth  sang  songs  below 
her  balcony,  the  matrons  made  much  of  her  and 
asked  her  searching  questions.  They  saw  in  her 
a  very  superb  and  handsome  Duchess,  Jehane  of 
the  Fair  Girdle,  now  acclaimed  in  the  soft  sylla- 
bles of  Aquitaine  as  Bel  Vezer.  When  they  were 
at  Dax  the  wise  King  of  Navarre  sent  ambassa- 
dors beseeching  from  them  a  visit  to  his  city  of 
Pampluna;  but  Richard  would  not  go.  Then 
they  came  back  to  Poictiers  and  shocking  news. 
This  was  of  the  death  of  King  Henry  of  Eng- 
land, the  old  lion,  '  dead  (Milo  is  bold  to  say)  in 
his  sin/ 


CHAPTER   XII 

HOW  THEY  BAYED  THE  OLD  LION 

I  MUST  report  what  happened  to  the  King  of 
England  when  (like  a  falcon  foiled  in  his  stoop) 
he  found  himself  outpaced  and  outgeneralled  on 
the  moor.  Shaken  off  by  those  he  sought  to 
entrap,  baited  by  the  badger  he  hoped  to  draw, 
he  took  on  something  not  to  be  shaken  off, 
namely  death,  and  had  drawn  from  him  what  he 
would  ill  spare,  namely  the  breath  of  his  nostrils. 
To  have  done  with  all  this  eloquence,  he  caught 
a  chill,  which,  working  on  a  body  shattered  by 
rages  and  bad  living,  smouldered  in  him  —  a  slow- 
eating  fever  which  bit  him  to  the  bones,  charred 
and  shrivelled  him  up.  In  the  clutches  of  this 
crawling  disease  he  joined  his  forces  with  those 
of  his  Marshal,  and  marched  to  the  relief  of  Le 
Mans,  where  the  French  King  was  taking  his  ease. 
Philip  fired  the  place  when  he  heard  of  his  ap- 
proach ;  so  Henry  got  near  enough  to  see  the  sky 
throbbing  with  red  light,  and  over  all  a  cloud  of 
smoke  blacker  than  his  own  despair.  It  is  said 
that  he  had  a  fit  of  hard  sobbing  when  he  saw  this 
dreadful  sight.  He  would  not  suffer  the  host  to 
approach  the  burning  city,  but  took  to  his  bed, 
turned  his  face  to  the  tent-wall,  and  refused  alike 
housel  and  meat.     News,  and  of  the  worst,  came 

134 


CH.  xn  THEY   BAY  THE  OLD   LION  135 

fast.  The  French  were  at  Chateaudun,  the 
Countess  of  Brittany's  men  were  threatening 
Anjou  from  the  north ;  all  Touraine  with  Saumur 
and  a  chain  of  border  castles  were  subject  to 
Richard  his  son.  These  things  he  heard  with- 
out moving  from  his  bed  or  opening  his  eyes. 

After  a  week  of  this  misery  two  of  his  lords, 
the  Marshal,  namely,  and  Bishop  Hugh  of  Dur- 
ham, came  to  his  bedside  and  told  him,  *  Sire,  here 
are  come  ambassadors  from  France  speaking  of  a 
peace.     How  shall  it  be  ? ' 

*  As  you  will,'  said  the  King ;  '  only  let  me 
sleep.'  He  spoke  drowsily,  as  if  not  really  awake, 
but  it  is  thought  that  he  was  more  watchful  than 
he  chose  to  appear. 

They  held  a  hasty  conference,  Geoffrey  his 
bastard,  the  Marshal,  the  Bishop :  these  and  the 
French  ambassadors.  On  the  King's  part  they 
made  but  one  request;  and  Geoffrey  made  that. 
The  King  was  dying :  let  him  be  taken  down  to 
his  castle  of  Chinon,  not  die  in  the  fields  like  an 
old  hunting  dog.  This  was  allowed.  He  took 
no  sort  of  notice,  let  them  do  what  they  would 
with  him,  slept  incessantly  all  the  way  to  Chinon. 

They  brought  him  the  parchments,  sealed  with 
his  great  seal ;  and  he,  quite  broken,  set  his  hand 
to  them  without  so  much  as  a  curse  on  the  rob- 
bery done  his  kingdom.  But  as  the  bearers  were 
going  out  on  tiptoe  he  suddenly  sat  up  in  bed. 
*  Hugh,'  he  grumbled,  '  Bishop  Hugh,  come  thou 
here.'  The  Bishop  turned  back  eagerly,  for  those 
two  had  loved  each  other  in  their  way,  and  knelt 
by  his  bed. 

'  Read    me   the   signatures   to  these   damned 


136  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  l 

things,'  said  the  King;  and  Hugh  rejoiced  that 
he  was  better,  yet  feared  to  make  him  worse. 

*  Ah,  dear  sire,'  he  began  to  say ;  but  '  Read, 
man,'  said  the  old  King,  jerking  his  foot  under 
the  bedclothes.  So  Hugh  the  Bishop  began  to 
read  them  over,  and  the  sick  man  listened  with  a 
shaky  head,  for  by  now  the  fever  was  running 
high. 

'  Philip  the  August,  King  of  the  Franks,'  says 
the  Bishop ;  and  '  A  dog's  name,'  the  old  King 
muttered  in  his  throat.  'Sanchez,  Catholic  King 
of  Navarre,'  says  Hugh ;  and  '  Name  of  an  owl,' 
King  Henry.  To  the  same  ground-bass  he  treated 
the  themes  of  the  illustrious  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
Henry  Count  of  Champagne,  and  others  of  the 
French  party.  With  these  the  Bishop  would  have 
stopped,  but  the  King  would  have  the  whole. 
'Nay,  Hugh,'  he  said  —  and  his  teeth  chattered 
as  if  it  had  been  bitter  cold  — '  out  with  the  name 
of  my  beloved  son.  So  you  shall  see  what  joyful 
agreement  there  is  in  my  house.'  The  Bishop 
read  the  name  of  Richard  Count  of  Poictou,  and 
the  King  grunted  his  '  Traitor  from  the  womb,' 
as  he  had  often  done  before. 

'  Who  follows  Richard  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Oh,  our  Lady,  is  he  not  enough,  sire  ? '  said 
the  Bishop  in  fear.  The  old  King  sat  bolt  upright 
and  steadied  his  head  on  his  knees.  '  Read,'  he 
said  again. 

'  I  cannot  read ! '  cried  Hugh  with  a  groan. 
The  King  said,  '  You  are  a  fool.  Give  me  the 
parchment.' 

He  pored  over  it,  with  dim  eyes  almost  out  of 
his  keeping,  searching  for  the  names  at  the  top. 


CH.  XII  THEY   BAY  THE  OLD   LION  137 

So  he  found  what  he  had  dreaded  — '  John  Count 
of  Mortain.'  Shaking  fearfully,  he  began  to  point 
at  the  wall  as  if  he  saw  the  man  before  him. 
'  Jesu  !  Count  by  me,  King  by  me,  and  Judas  by 
me!  Now,  God,  let  me  serve  Thee  as  Thou 
deservest.  Thou  hast  taken  away  all  my  sons. 
Now  then  the  devil  may  have  my  soul,  for  Thou 
shalt  never  have  it.'  The  death-rattle  was  heard 
in  his  throat,  and  Hugh  sprang  forward  to  help 
him :  he  was  still  stiffly  upright,  still  looking 
(though  with  filmy  eyes)  at  the  wall,  still  trying 
to  shape  in  words  his  wicked  vaunts.  No  words 
came  from  him;  his  jaw  dropped  before  his  strong 
old  body.  They  brought  him  the  Sacrament ;  his 
soul  rejected  it — too  clean  food.  Hugh  and  others 
about  him,  all  in  a  sweat,  got  him  down  at  last. 
They  anointed  him  and  said  a  few  prayers,  for 
they  were  in  a  desperate  hurry  when  it  came  to 
the  end.  It  was  near  midnight  when  he  died, 
and  at  that  hour,  they  terribly  report,  the  wind 
sprang  up  and  howled  about  the  turrets  of  Chinon, 
as  if  all  hell  was  out  hunting  for  that  which  he 
had  promised  them.  But,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  he  had  never  kept  his  promises,  and  there 
is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  kept  that  one 
either.  Milo  adds,  '  So  died  this  great,  puissant, 
and  terrible  king,  cursing  his  children,  cursed  in 
them,  as  they  in  him.  All  power  was  given  over 
to  him  from  his  birth,  save  one  only,  power  over 
himself.  He  was  indeed  a  slave  more  wretched 
than  those  hinds,  glebcE  ascriptitii,  whom  at  a 
distance  he  ruled  in  his  lands:  he  was  slave  of 
his  baser  parts.  With  God  he  was  always  at 
war,   and   with    God's  elect.      What  of   blessed 


138  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Thomas  ?  Let  Thomas  answer  on  the  Last  Day. 
I  deny  him  none  of  his  properties ;  he  was  open- 
handed,  open-minded,  as  bold  as  a  lion.  But  his 
vices  ate  him  up.  Peace  be  with  the  man ;  he  was 
a  mighty  king.  He  left  a  wife  in  prison,  two 
sons  in  arms  against  him,  and  many  bastards.' 

As  soon  as  he  was  dead  his  people  came  about 
like  flies  and  despoiled  the  Castle  of  Chinon,  the 
bed  where  he  lay  (smiling  grimly,  as  if  death  had 
made  him  a  cynic),  his  very  body  of  the  rings  on 
its  fingers,  the  gold  circlet,  the  Christ  round  his 
neck.  Such  flagrancy  was  the  penalty  of  death, 
who  had  made  himself  too  cheap  in  those  days ; 
nor  were  there  any  left  with  him  who  might  have 
said.  Honour  my  dead  father,  or  dead  master. 
William  the  Marshal  had  gone  to  Rouen,  afraid 
of  Richard ;  Geoffrey  was  half  way  to  Angers  after 
treasure;  the  Bishop  of  Durham  (for  purposes) 
had  hastened  off  to  Poictiers  to  be  the  first  to  hail 
the  new  King.  All  that  remained  faithful  in  that 
den  of  thieves  were  a  couple  of  poor  girls  with 
whom  the  old  sinner  had  lately  had  to  do.  Seeing 
he  was  left  naked  on  his  bed,  one  of  these  — 
Nicolete  her  name  was,  from  Harfleur  —  touched 
the  other  on  the  shoulder — Kentish  Mall  they 
called  her  —  and  said,  'They  have  robbed  our 
master  of  so  much  as  a  shirt  to  be  buried  in. 
What  shall  we  do?' 

Mall  said,  '  If  we  are  found  with  him  we  shall 
be  hanged,  sure  enough.  Yet  the  old  man  was 
kind  to  me.' 

*  And  to  me  he  was  kind,'  said  Nicolete,  *  God 
wot.' 

Then  they  looked  at  each  other.     '  Well  ? '  said 


% 


CH.  XII  THEY  BAY  THE  OLD  LION  139 

Nicolete.  And  Mall,  *What  you  do  I  will  do.' 
So  they  kissed  together,  knowing  it  was  a  gallows 
matter,  and  went  in  to  the  dead  body  of  the  King. 
They  washed  it  tenderly,  and  anointed  it,  com- 
posed the  hands  and  shut  down  the  horrible  sight- 
less eyes,  then  put  upon  it  the  only  shirt  they 
could  find,  which  (being  a  boy's)  was  a  very  short 
one.  Afterwards  came  the  Chancellor,  Stephen 
of  Turon,  called  up  in  a  great  hurry  from  a 
merry-making,  with  one  or  two  others,  and  took 
some  order  in  the  affair. 

The  Chancellor  knew  perfectly  well  that  King 
Henry  had  desired  to  be  buried  in  the  church  of 
the  nuns  at  Fontevrault.  There  had  been  an  old 
prophecy  that  he  should  lie  veiled  among  the 
veiled  women  which  had  pleased  him  very  much, 
though  it  had  often  been  his  way  to  scoff  at  it. 
But  no  one  dared  move  him  without  the  order  of 
the  new  King,  whoever  that  might  happen  to  be. 
Who  could  tell  when  Anjou  was  claiming  a 
crown  ?  Messengers  therefore  were  sent  out  hot- 
foot to  Count  Richard  at  Poictiers,  and  to  Count 
John,  who  was  supposed  to  be  in  Paris.  He,  how- 
ever, was  at  Tours  with  the  French  King,  and 
got  the  news  first. 

It  caught  him  in  the  wind,  so  to  put  it.  Alain, 
a  Canon  of  Tours,  came  before  him  kneeling,  and 
told  him.  *  Lord  Christ,  Alain,  what  shall  we 
do  ? '  says  he,  as  white  as  a  cheese-cloth.  They 
fell  talking  of  this  or  that,  that  might  or  might 
never  be  done,  when  in  burst  King  Philip,  Saint- 
Pol,  Des  Barres,  and  the  purple-faced  Duke  of 
Burgundy.  King  PhiHp  ran  up  to  John  and 
clapped  him  on  the  back. 


140  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

*  King  John  !  King  John  of  England  ! '  screamed 
the  young  man,  like  a  witch  in  the  air;  then  Bur- 
gundy began  his  grumble  of  thunder. 

'  I  stand  for  you,  by  God.  I  am  for  you,  man.* 
But  Saint-Pol  knelt  and  touched  his  knee. 

'  Sire,  do  me  right,  and  I  become  your  man  ! ' 
So  said  Des  Barres  also.  Count  John  looked  about 
him  and  wrung  his  hands. 

'  Heh,  my  lords  !  Heh,  sirs  !  What  shall  I  do 
now } '  He  was  liquid ;  fear  and  desire  frittered 
his  heart  to  water. 

They  held  a  great  debate,  all  talking  at  once, 
except  the  subject  of  the  bother.  He  could  only 
bite  his  nails  and  look  out  of  the  window.  To 
them,  then,  came  creeping  Alois  of  France,  deadly 
pale,  habited  in  the  grey  weeds  of  a  nun.  How  she 
got  in,  I  know  not ;  but  they  parted  this  way  and 
that  before  her,  and  so  she  came  very  close  to  John 
in  his  chair,  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

*  What  now,  traitor  ? '  she  said  hoarsely.  '  Whom 
next  ?  The  sister  betrayed ;  the  father ;  and  now 
the  brother  and  king  ? ' 

John  shook.  '  No,  no,  Alois,  no  no ! '  he  said 
in  a  whisper.  '  Go  to  bed.  We  think  not  of  it.' 
But  she  still  stood  looking  at  him,  with  a  wry 
smile  on  that  face  of  hers,  pinched  with  grief  and 
old  before  its  time.     Saint- Pol  stamped  his  foot. 

*  Whom  shall  we  trust  in  Anjou  ? '  he  said  to  Des 
Barres.  Des  Barres  shrugged.  The  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy grumbled  something  about '  d d  women,' 

and  King  Philip  ordered  his  sister  to  bed.  They 
got  her  out  of  the  room  after  a  painful  scene,  and 
fell  to  wrangling  again,  trying  to  screw  some 
resolution  into  the  white  prince  whom  they  all 


CH.xii  THEY   BAY  THE  OLD  LION  141 

intended  to  use  as  a  cat's-paw.  About  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning  —  they  still  at  it  —  came  a  shatter 
of  hoofs  in  the  courtyard,  which  made  Count  John 
jump  in  his  skin.     A  herald  was  announced. 

Reeking  he  stood,  and  stood  covered,  in  the 
presence  of  so  much  majesty. 

'  Speak,  sir,'  said  King  Philip ;  and  '  Uncover 
before  France,  you  dog,'  said  young  Saint-Pol. 
The  herald  kept  his  cap  where  it  was. 

'  I  speak  from  England  to  the  English.  This 
is  the  command  of  my  master,  Richard  King  of 
the  English,  Duke  of  Normandy,  Count  of  Anjou. 
Bid  our  brother,  the  illustrious  Count  of  Mortain, 
attend  us  at  Fontevrault  with  all  speed  for  the 
obsequies  of  the  King  our  father.  And  those 
who  owe  him  obedience,  let  them  come  also.' 

There  was  low  murmuring  in  the  chamber, 
which  grew  in  volume,  until  at  last  Burgundy 
thundered  out, '  England  is  here  !  Cut  down  that 
man.'  But  the  herald  stood  his  ground,  and  no 
one  drew  a  sword.  John  dismissed  him  with  a 
few  smooth  words ;  but  he  could  not  get  rid  of 
his  friends  so  easily.  Nor  could  they  succeed  with 
him.  If  Montferrat  had  been  there  they  might 
have  screwed  him  to  the  pitch.  Montferrat  had  a 
clear  course:  any  king  of  England  who  would 
help  him  to  the  throne  of  Jerusalem  was  the  king 
of  England  he  would  serve.  But  Philip  would 
not,  commit  himself,  and  Burgundy  waited  on 
PhiHp.  As  for  Saint-Pol,  he  was  nothing  but  a 
sword  or  two  and  an  unquenchable  grudge.  And 
forbidding  in  the  background  stood  Alois,  with 
reproach  in  her  sunken  eyes.  The  end  of  it  was 
that  Count  John,  after  a  while,  rode  out  towards 


142  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Fontevrault  with  all  the  pomp  he  could  muster. 
Thither  also,  it  is  clear,  went  Madame  Alois. 

'  I  was  with  my  master,'  says  Milo  in  his  book, 
*  when  they  brought  him  the  news.  He  was  not 
long  home  from  the  South,  had  been  hawking  in 
the  meadows  all  day,  and  was  now  in  great  fettle, 
sitting  familiarly  among  his  intimates,  Jehane  on 
his  knee.  Bertran  de  Born  was  in  there  singing 
some  free  song,  and  the  gentle  Viscount  of 
Beziers,  and  Lady  Elis  of  Montfort  (who  sat  on  a 
cushion  and  played  with  Dame  Jehane's  hand), 
and  Gaston  of  Beam,  and  (I  think)  Lady  Tibors 
of  Vezelay.  Then  came  the  usher  suddenly  into 
the  room  with  his  wand,  and  by  the  door  fell  upon 
one  knee,  a  sort  of  state  which  Count  Richard 
had  always  disliked.     It  made  him  testy. 

* "  Well,  Gaucelm,  well,"  he  said ;  "  on  your  two 
legs,  my  man,  if  you  are  to  please  me." 

*  "  Lord    King "     Gaucelm    began,    then 

stopped.     My  lord  bayed  at  him. 

'  "  Oy  Deus !  "  he  said  in  our  tongue,  below  his 
breath ;  and  Jehane  slid  off  his  knee  and  on  to 
her  own.  So  fell  kneeling  the  whole  company, 
till  Gaston  of  Beam,  more  mad  than  most,  sprang 
up,  shouting,  "  Hail,  King  of  the  English ! "  and 
better,  "  Hail,  Count  of  Anjou  ! "  We  all  began 
on  that  cry ;  but  he  stopped  us  with  a  poignant 
look. 

'  "  God  have  mercy  on  me :  I  am  very  wicked," 
he  said,  and  covered  up  his  face.  No  one  spoke. 
Jehane  bent  herself  far  down  and  kissed  his  foot. 

*  Then  he  sent  for  the  heralds,  and  in  burst 
Hugh  Puiset,  Bishop  of  Durham,  with  his  flaming 
face,  outstripping  all  the  others  and  decency  at 


CH.  xn  THEY   BAY  THE  OLD   LION  143 

once.  By  this  time  King  Richard  had  recovered 
himself.  He  heard  the  tale  without  moving  a 
feature,  and  gave  a  few  short  commands.  The 
first  was  that  the  body  of  the  dead  King  should 
be  carried  splendidly  to  Fontevrault;  and  the 
next  that  a  pall  should  be  set  up  in  his  private 
chapel  here  at  Poictiers,  and  tall  candles  set 
lighted  about  it.  So  soon  as  this  was  done  he 
left  the  chamber,  all  standing,  and  went  alone  to 
the  chapel.  He  spent  the  night  there  on  his 
knees,  himself  only  with  a  few  priests.  He  neither 
sent  for  Countess  Jehane,  nor  did  she  presume  to 
seek  him.  Her  women  tell  me  that  she  prayed 
all  night  before  a  Christ  in  her  bed-chamber ;  and 
well  she  might,  with  a  queen's  crown  in  fair  view. 
In  two  or  three  days'  time  King  Richard  pressed 
out,  very  early,  for  Fontevrault.  I  went  with  him, 
and  so  did  Hugh  of  Durham,  the  Bishop  of 
Poictiers,  and  the  Dauphin  of  Auvergne.  These, 
with  the  Chancellor  of  Poictou,  the  household 
servants  and  guards,  were  all  we  had  with  us. 
The  Countess  was  to  be  ready  upon  word  from 
him  to  go  with  her  ladies  and  the  court  whitherso- 
ever he  should  appoint.  Bertran  de  Born  went 
away  in  the  night,  and  King  Richard  never  saw 
him  again ;  but  I  shall  have  to  speak  of  his  last 
tenzon,  and  his  last  Sirvente  of  Kings,  by  heaven! 
'  Before  he  went  King  Richard  kissed  the 
Countess  Jehane  twice  in  the  great  hall.  "  Fare- 
well, my  queen,"  he  said  plainly,  and,  as  some 
think,  but  not  I,  deliberately.  "  God  be  thy  good 
friend.  I  shall  see  thee  before  many  days."  If 
the  man  was  changed  already,  she  was  not  at  all 
changed.     She   was  very  grave,  but  not  crying, 


144  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

and  put  up  her  face  for  his  kisses  as  meek  as  any 
baby.  She  said  nothing  at  all,  but  stood  palely 
at  the  door  with  her  women  as  King  Richard 
rode  over  the  bridge. 

*  For  my  part,'  he  concludes,  *  when  I  consider 
the  youth  and  fierce  .  untutored  blood  of  this 
noblest  of  his  race ;  or  when  I  remember  their 
terrible  names,  Tortulf  Forester,  and  Ingelger, 
Fulke  the  Black  and  Fulke  the  Red,  and  Geoffrey 
Greygown  and  Geoffrey  the  Fair,  and  that  old 
Henry,  the  wickedest  of  all ;  their  deeds  also,  how 
father  warred  upon  his  sons,  and  sons  conspired 
against  their  fathers ;  how  they  hated  righteous- 
ness and  loved  iniquity,  and  spurned  monks  and 
priests,  and  revelled  in  the  shambles  they  had 
made:  then  I  say  to  myself.  Good  Milo,  how 
wouldst  thou  have  received  thy  calling  to  be 
king  and  sovereign  count  ?  Wouldst  thou  have 
said,  as  Count  John  said,  "  Lord  Christ,  Alain, 
what  shall  we  do  ? "  Or  rather,  "  God  have 
mercy,  I  am  very  wicked."  It  is  true  that  Count 
John  was  not  called  to  those  estates,  and  that 
King  Richard  was.  But  I  choose  sooner  to  think 
that  each  was  confronted  with  his  dead  father, 
and  not  the  emptied  throne.  In  which  case 
Count  John  thought  of  his  safety  and  King 
Richard  of  his  sin.  Such  musing  is  a  windy 
business,  suitable  to  old  men.  But  I  suppose 
that  you  who  read  are  very  young.' 


1* 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HOW  THEY  MET  AT  FONTEVRAULT 

Communing  with  himself  as  he  rode  alone  over  the 
broomy  downs,  King  Richard  reined  up  shortly 
and  sent  back  a  messenger  for  Milo  the  Abbot; 
so  Milo  flogged  his  old  mule.  Directly  he  was 
level  with  his  master,  that  master  spoke  in  a 
quiet  voice,  like  one  who  is  prepared  for  the 
worst :  '  Milo,  what  should  a  man  do  who  has 
slain  his  own  father  ?  Is  repentance  possible  for 
such  a  one  ?  * 

Milo  looked  up  first  at  the  blue  sky,  then  about 
at  the  earth,  all  green  and  gold.  He  wrinkled 
close  his  eyes  and  let  the  sun  play  upon  his  face. 
The  air  was  soft,  the  turf  springy  underfoot.  He 
found  it  good  to  be  there.  *  Sire,'  he  said,  '  it  is  a 
hard  matter;  yet  there  have  been  worse  griefs 
than  that  in  the  world.' 

'  Name  one,  my  friend,'  says  the  King,  whose 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  edge  of  the  hill. 

Milo  said,  *  There  was  a  Father,  my  lord  King 
Richard,  who  slew  His  own  Son  that  the  world 
might  be  the  better.  That  was  a  terrible  grief, 
I  suppose.'  The  King  was  silent  for  a  few  paces ; 
then  he  asked  — 

*  And  was  the  world  much  the  better  ? ' 

'  Beau  sire,'  replied  Milo,  '  not  very  much.  But 
that  was  not  God's  fault ;  for  it  had,  and  still  has, 
the  chance  of  being  the  better  for  it' 

L  145 


146  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

*  And  do  you  dare,  Milo,'  said  the  King,  turn- 
ing him  a  stern  face,  'set  my  horrible  offence 
beside  the  Divine  Sacrifice  ? ' 

'  Not  so,  my  lord  King,'  said  Milo  at  large ; 
*  but  I  draw  this  distinction.  You  are  not  so 
guilty  as  you  suppose;  for  in  this  world  the 
father  maketh  the  son,  both  in  the  way  of  nature 
and  of  precept.  In  heaven  it  is  otherwise. 
There  the  Son  was  from  the  beginning,  co- 
eternal  with  the  Father,  begotten  but  not  made. 
In  the  divine  case  there  was  pure  sacrifice,  and 
no  guilt  at  all.  In  the  earthly  case  there  was 
much  guilt,  but  as  yet  no  sacrifice.' 

*  That  guilt  was  mine,  Milo,'  said  Richard  with 
a  sob. 

'  Lord,  I  think  not,'  answered  the  old  priest. 
'  You  are  what  your  fathers  have  made  you.  But 
now  mark  me  well :  in  doing  sacrifice  you  can  be 
very  greatly  otherwise.  Then  if  no  more  guilt 
be  upon  you  than  hangs  by  the  misfortunes  of 
tainted  man,  you  can  please  Almighty  God  by 
doing  what  you  only  among  men  can  do,  whole- 
some sacrifice.' 

'Why,  what  sacrifice  shall  I  do.?'  says  the 
King. 

Milo  stood  up  in  his  stirrups,  greatly  exalted  in 
the  spirit. 

'  My  lord,'  he  said,  '  behold,  it  is  for  two  years 
that  you  have  borne  the  sign  of  that  sacrifice  upon 
you,  but  yet  have  done  nothing  of  it.  During 
these  years  God's  chosen  seat  hath  lain  dis- 
honoured, become  the  wash-pot  of  the  heathen. 
The  Holy  Tree,  stock  beyond  price,  Rod  of 
Grace,   figure   of  freedom,  is    in    bonds.      The 


CH.  XIII  KINGS  AT   FONTEVRAULT  147 

Sepulchre  is  ensepulchred ;  Antichrist  reigns. 
Lord,  Lord/  —  here  the  Abbot  shook  his  lifted 
finger,  — '  how  long  shall  this  be  ?  You  ask  me 
of  sin  and  sacrifice.     Behold  the  way.' 

King  Richard  jerked  his  head,  then  his  horse's. 
*Get  back,  Milo,  and  leave  me,'  he  said  curtly, 
struck  in  the  spurs,  and  galloped  away  over  the 
grey  down. 

The  cavalcade  halted  at  Thouars,  and  lay  the 
night  in  a  convent  of  the  Order  of  Savigny. 
King  Richard  kept  himself  to  himself,  ate  little, 
spoke  less.  He  prayed  out  the  night,  or  most 
of  it,  kneeling  in  his  shirt  in  the  sanctuary,  with 
his  bare  sword  held  before  him  like  a  cross.  Next 
morning  he  called  up  his  household  by  the  first 
cock,  had  them  out  on  the  road  before  the  sun, 
and  pushed  forward  with  such  haste  that  it  was 
one  hour  short  of  noon  when  they  saw  the  great 
church  of  the  nuns  of  Fontevrault  like  a  pile  of 
dim  rock  in  their  way. 

At  a  mile's  distance  from  the  walls  the  King 
got  off  his  horse,  and  bid  his  squires  strip  him. 
He  ungirt  his  sword,  took  off  helm  and  circlet, 
cloak,  blazoned  surcoat,  the  girdle  of  his  county. 
Beggared  so  of  all  emblems  of  his  grace,  clad  only 
in  hauberk  of  steel,  bareheaded,  without  weapon, 
and  on  foot,  he  walked  among  his  mounted  men 
into  the  little  town  of  Fontevrault.  That  which 
he  could  not  do  off,  his  sovereign  inches,  sover- 
eign eye,  gait  of  mastery,  prevailed  over  all  other 
robbery  of  his  estate.  The  people  bent  their 
knees  as  he  passed ;  not  a  few  —  women  with 
babies  in  their  shawls,  lads  and  girls  —  caught  at 
his  hand  or  hauberk's  edge,  to  kiss  it  and  get  the 


148  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

virtue  out  of  him  that  is  known  to  reside  in  a 
king.  When  he  came  within  sight  of  the  church 
he  knelt  and  let  his  head  sink  down  to  his  breast. 
But  his  grief  seemed  to  strike  inwards  like  a 
frost ;  he  stiffened  and  got  up,  and  went  forward. 
No  one  would  have  guessed  him  a  penitent  then, 
who  saw  him  mount  the  broad  steps  to  meet  his 
brother.  Before  the  shut  doors  of  the  abbey  was 
Count  John,  very  splendid  in  a  purple  cloak,  his 
crown  of  a  count  upon  his  yellow  hair.  He  stood 
like  a  king  among  his  peers,  but  flushed  and  rest- 
less, twiddling  his  fingers  as  kings  do  not  twiddle 
theirs. 

Irresolution  kept  him  where  he  was  until  Rich- 
ard had  topped  the  first  flight  of  steps.  But  then 
he  came  down  to  meet  him  in  too  much  of  a 
hurry,  tripping,  blundering  the  degrees,  nodding 
and  poking  his  head,  with  hands  stretched  out 
and  body  bent,  like  his  who  supplicates  what  he 
does  not  deserve. 

'  Hail,  King  of  England,  O  hail ! '  he  said, 
wheedling,  royally  vested,  royally  above,  yet 
grovelling  there  to  the  prince  below  him.  King 
Richard  stopped  with  his  foot  on  the  next  step, 
and  let  the  Count  come  down. 

'  How  lies  he  ? '  were  his  first  words ;  the 
other's  face  grew  fearful. 

'  Eh,  I  know  not,'  he  said,  shuddering.  '  I 
have  not  seen  him.'  Now,  he  must  have  been 
in  Fontevrault  for  a  day  or  more. 

'Why  not? '  asked  Richard;  and  John  stretched 
out  his  arms  again. 

'  Oh,  brother,  I  waited  for  you ! '  he  cried,  then 
added  lower,  '  I  could  not  face  him  alone/     This  ^ 


CH.  XIII  KINGS  AT  FONTEVRAULT  149 

was  perfectly  evident,  or  he  would  never  have 
said  it. 

'  Pish  I '  said  King  Richard,  *  that  is  no  way 
to  mend  matters.  But  it  is  written,  "  They  shall 
look  on  him  whom  they  pierced."  Come  you 
in.'  He  mounted  the  steps  to  his  brother's 
level;  and  men  saw  that  he  was  nearly  a  hand 
taller,  though  John  was  a  fine  tall  man. 

'With  you,  Richard,  with  you  —  but  never 
without  you !  '  said  John,  in  a  hush,  rolling  his 
eyes  about.  Richard,  taking  no  notice,  bid  them 
set  open  the  doors.  This  was  done:  the  chill 
taint  of  the  dark,  of  wax  and  damp  and  death 
came  out.  John  shivered,  but  King  Richard 
left  him  to  shiver,  and  passed  out  of  the  sun 
into  the  echoing  nave.  Lightly  and  fiercely  he 
went  in,  like  a  brave  man  who  is  fretful  until 
he  meets  his  danger's  face;  and  John  caught 
at  his  wrist,  and  went  tiptoe  after  him.  All  the 
rest,  Poictevins  and  Frenchmen  together,  fol- 
lowed in  a  pack;  then  the  two  bishops  vested. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  church,  beyond  the 
great  Rood,  they  saw  the  candles  flare  about  a 
bier.  Before  that  was  a  little  white  altar  with  a 
priest  saying  his  mass  in  a  whisper.  The  high 
altar  was  all  dark,  and  behind  a  screen  in  the 
north  transept  the  nuns  were  singing  the  Office 
for  the  Dead.  King  Richard  pushed  on  quickly, 
the  others  trooping  behind.  There  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  chilly  state,  grim  and  sour-faced,  as  he 
had  always  been,  but  now  as  unconcerned  as  all 
the  dead  are,  lay  the  empty  majesty  of  England, 
careless  (as  it  seemed)  of  the  full  majesty;  and 
dead  Anjou  a  stranger  to  the  living. 


I50  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

It  was  not  so  altogether,  if  we  are  to  believe 
those  who  saw  it.  The  hatred  of  the  dead  is  a 
fearful  thing:  of  that  which  followed  be  God 
the  only  judge,  and  I  not  even  the  reporter. 
Milo  saw  it,  and  Milo  (who  got  some  comfort 
out  of  it  at  last)  shall  tell  you  the  tale;  'for  I 
know,'  says  he,  '  that  in  the  end  the  hidden 
things  are  to  be  made  plain,  and  even  so,  things 
which  then  I  guessed  darkly  have  since  been 
opened  out  to  my  understanding.  Behold ! '  he 
goes  on,  '  I  tell  you  a  mystery.  Lightly  and 
adventuring  came  King  Richard  to  his  dead 
father,  and  Count  John  dragging  behind  him 
like  a  load  of  care.  Reverently  he  knelt  him 
down  beside  the  bier,  prayed  for  a  little,  then, 
looking  up,  touched  the  grey  old  face.  Before 
God,  I  say,  it  was  the  act  of  a  boy.  But  slowly, 
slowly,  we  who  watched  quaking  saw  a  black 
stream  well  at  the  nostril  of  the  dead,  and  slowly 
drag  a  snake's  way  down  the  jaw:  a  sight  to 
shake  those  fraught  with  God  —  and  what  to 
men  in  their  trespasses.?  But  while  all  the 
others  fell  back  gasping,  or  whispering  their 
prayers,  scarce  knowing  what  I  was  or  did  (save 
that  I  loved  King  Richard),  I  whipt  forward 
with  a  handkerchief  to  cover  the  horror  out  of 
sight.  This  I  would  have  done,  though  all  had 
seen  it;  the  King  had  seen  it,  and  that  white- 
hearted  traitor  Count  had  seen  it,  and  sprung 
away  with  a  wail,  "  O  Christ !  O  Christ !  "  The 
King  stood  up,  and  with  his  lifted  hand  stopped 
me  in  the  pious  act.  All  held  their  breaths.  I 
saw  the  priest  at  the  altar  peer  round  the  cor- 
ner,  his  mouth   making  a  ring.     King  Richard 


CH.  xm  KINGS  AT  FONTEVRAULT  151 

was  very  pale  and  serious.  He  began  to  talk 
to  his  father,  while  the  Count  lay  cowering  on 
the  pavement. 

' "  Thou  thinkest  me  thy  slayer,  father,"  he  said, 
"  pointing  at  me  the  murder-sign.  Well,  I  am 
content  to  take  it ;  for  be  thou  sure  of  this,  that 
if  that  last  war  between  us  was  rightfully  begun 
it  was  rightfully  ended.  And  of  righteousness  I 
think  I  am  as  good  a  judge  as  ever  thou  wert. 
Thy  work  is  done,  and  mine  is  to  do.  If  I  may 
be  as  kingly  as  thou  wert,  I  shall  please  thee  yet; 
and  if  I  fail  in  that  I  shall  never  blame  thee,  father. 
Now,  Abbot  Milo,"  he  concluded,  "  cover  the 
face."  So  I  did,  and  Count  John  got  up  to  his 
knees  again,  and  looked  at  his  brother. 

'  This  was  not  the  end.  Madame  Alois  of 
France  came  into  the  church  through  the  nuns' 
door,  dressed  all  in  grey,  with  a  great  grey  hood  on 
her  head,  and  after  her  women  in  the  same  habit. 
She  came  hastily,  with  a  quick  shuffling  motion  of 
the  feet,  as  if  she  was  gliding;  and  by  the  bier  she 
stood  still,  questing  with  her  eyes  from  side  to  side, 
like  a  hunted  thing.  King  Richard  she  saw,  for 
he  was  standing  up ;  but  still  she  looked  about 
and  about.  Now  Count  John  was  kneeling  in  the 
shadow,  so  she  saw  him  last ;  but  once  meeting  his 
deplorable  eyes  with  her  own  she  never  left  go 
again.  Whatever  she  did  (and  it  was  much),  or 
whatever  said  (and  her  mouth  was  pregnant),  was 
with  a  fixed  gaze  on  him. 

'  Being  on  the  other  side  of  the  bier  from  him 
she  watched,  she  put  her  arms  over  the  dead  body, 
as  a  priest  at  mass  broods  upon  the  Host  he  is 
making.      And  looking  shrewdly  at  the  Count, 


152  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

"  If  the  dead  could  speak,  John,"  she  said,  "  if  the 
dead  could  speak,  how  think  you  it  would  report 
concerning  you  and  me?" 

' "  Ha,  Madame  !  "  says  Count  John,  shaking 
like  a  leafy  tree,  "  what  is  this  ?  "  Madame  Alois 
removed  my  handkerchief.  The  horror  was  still 
there. 

* "  He  did  me  kindness,"  she  said,  looking  wist- 
fully at  the  eri^^pty  face ;  "  he  tried  to  serve  me  this 
way  and  that  way."  She  stroked  it,  then  looked 
again  at  the  Count.  "  But  then  you  came,  John ; 
and  you  he  loved  above  all.  How  have  you  served 
him,  John,  my  bonny  lad  ?  Eh,  Saviour !  "  She 
looked  up  on  high  — "  Eh,  Saviour,  if  the  dead 
could  speak ! " 

'  No  more  than  the  dead  could  John  speak ; 
but  King  Richard  answered  her. 

* "  Madame,"  he  said,  "  the  dead  hath  spoken, 
and  I  have  answered  it.  That  is  the  kingly  office, 
I  think,  to  stand  before  God  for  the  people.  Let 
no  other  speak.     All  is  said." 

* "  No,  no,  Richard,"  said  Madame  Alois,  "  all 
is  not  nearly  said.  So  sure  as  I  live  in  torment, 
you  will  rue  it  if  you  do  not  listen  to  me  now." 

' "  Madame,"  replied  the  King,  "  I  shall  not 
listen.  I  require  your  silence.  If  I  have  it  in  me, 
I  command  it.     I  know  what  I  have  done." 

*  "  You  know  nothing,"  said  the  lady,  beginning 
to  tremble.     "  You  are  a  fool." 

' "  May  be,"  said  King  Richard,  with  a  little 
shrug,  "  but  I  am  a  king  in  Fontevrault." 

*  The  Count  of  Mortain  began  to  wag  his  head 
about  and  pluck  at  the  morse  of  his  cope.  "  Air, 
air ! "   he    gasped ;    "  I   strangle !    I   suffocate  I " 


CH.  XIII  KINGS  AT  FONTEVRAULT  153 

They  carried  him  out  of  church  to  his  lodging, 
and  there  bled  him. 

' "  Once  more,  King  Richard,"  said  Madame, 
"  will  you  hear  the  truth  from  me  ?  " 

'  The  king  turned  fiercely,  saying,  "  Madame, 
I  will  hear  nothing  from  you.  My  purpose  is  to 
take  the  Cross  here  in  this  church,  and  to  set 
about  our  Lord's  business  as  soon  as  may  be.  I 
urge  you,  therefore,  to  depart  and,  if  you  have 
time,  to  consider  your  soul's  health  —  as  I  con- 
sider mine  and  my  kingdom's." 

*She  began  to  cry,  being  overwrought  with 
this  terrible  affair.  "  O  Richard,"  she  said,  "  for- 
give me  my  trespasses.     I  am  most  wretched." 

*  He  stepped  forward,  and  across  the  dead  man 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  "  God  knows,  I  for- 
give thee,  Alois,"  he  said. 

*So  then  she  went  away  with  her  people,  and 
no  long  time  afterwards  took  (as  I  believe)  the 
whole  vow  in  the  convent  of  Fontevrault'  Thus 
Milo  records  a  scene  too  high  for  me. 

When  they  had  buried  the  old  King,  Richard 
sent  letters  to  his  brother  of  France,  reminding 
him  of  what  they  had  both  undertaken  to  do, 
namely,  to  redeem  the  Sepulchre  and  set  up  again 
in  Jerusalem  the  True  Cross.  '  As  for  me,'  he 
wrote,  '  I  do  most  earnestly  purpose  to  set  about 
that  business  as  soon  as  I  may ;  and  I  require  of 
you,  sire  and  my  brother,  to  witness  my  resump- 
tion of  the  Cross  in  this  church  of  Fontevrault 
upon  the  feast  of  Monsire  Saint  John  Baptist 
next  coming.  Let  them  also  who  are  in  your 
allegiance,  the  illustrious  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
Conrad  Marquess  of  Montferrat,  and  my  cousin 


154  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Count  Henry,  be  of  your  party  and  sharers  with 
you  in  the  new  vow.'  This  done,  he  went  to 
Chinon  to  secure  his  father's  treasure,  and  then 
made  preparations  for  his  coronation  as  Count  of 
Anjou,  and  for  Jehane's  coronation. 

When  she  got  his  word  that  she  was  to  meet 
him  at  Angers  by  a  certain  day  there  was  no 
thought  of  disobedience;  the  pouting  mouth 
meant  no  mutiny.  It  meant  sickening  fear.  In 
Angers  they  crown  the  Count  of  Anjou  with 
the  red  cap,  and  put  upon  his  feet  the  red  shoes. 
That  would  make  Richard  the  Red  Count  indeed, 
whose  cap  and  bed  the  leper  had  bid  her  beware. 
Beware  she  might,  but  how  avoid?  She  knew 
Richard  by  this  time  for  master.  A  year  ago 
she  had  subjugated  him  in  the  Dark  Tower;  but 
since  then  he  had  handled  her,  moulded  her,  had 
but  to  nod  and  she  served  his  will.  With  what 
heart  of  lead  she  came,  come  she  did  to  await  him 
in  black  Angers,  steep  and  hardy  little  city  of 
slate ;  and  the  meeting  of  the  two  brought  tears 
to  many  eyes.  She  fell  at  his  feet,  clasped  his 
knees,  could  not  speak  nor  cease  from  looking 
up;  and  he,  tall  and  kingly,  stoops,  lifts  her, 
holds  her  upon  his  breast,  strokes  her  face,  kisses 
her  eyes  and  sorrowful  mouth.  *  Child,'  he  says, 
*  art  thou  glad  of  me  t '  asking,  as  lovers  love  best 
to  do,  the  things  they  know  best  already.  '  O 
Richard !  O  Richard !  '  was  all  she  could  say, 
poor  fond  wretch;  however,  we  go  not  by  the 
sense  of  a  bride's  language,  but  by  the  passion 
that  breaks  it  up.  Every  agony  of  self-reproach, 
of  fear  of  him,  of  mistrust,  of  lurking  fate,  lay 
in  those  sobbed  words,  '  O  Richard  !  O  Richard  ! ' 


CH.  XIII  KINGS  AT   FONTEVRAULT  155 

When  he  had  her  alone  at  night,  and  she  had 
found  her  voice,  she  began  to  woo  him  and  softly 
to  beguile  him  with  a  hand  to  his  chin,  judging 
it  a  propitious  time,  while  one  of  his  held  her 
head.  All  the  arts  of  woman  were  hers  that 
night,  but  his  were  the  new  purposes  of  a  man. 
He  had  had  a  rude  shock,  was  full  of  the  sense 
of  his  sin ;  that  grim  old  mocking  face,  grey 
among  the  candle-flames,  was  plain  across  the 
bed-chamber  where  they  lay.  To  himself  he 
made  oath  that  he  would  sin  no  more.  No,  no: 
a  king,  he  would  do  kingly.  To  her,  clasped 
close  in  his  arms,  he  gave  kisses  and  sweet  words. 
Alas,  she  wanted  not  the  sugar  of  his  tongue ; 
she  would  have  had  him  bitter,  though  it  cost 
her  dear.  Lying  there,  lulled  but  not  convinced, 
her  sobs  grew  weaker.  She  cried  herself  to  sleep, 
and  he  kissed  her  sleeping. 

In  the  cathedral  church  of  his  fathers  he  did 
on,  by  the  hands  of  the  Archbishop,  the  red  cap 
and  girdle  and  shoes  of  Anjou ;  there  he  held  up 
the  leopard  shield  for  all  to  see.  There  also  upon 
the  bent  head  of  Jehane  —  she  kneeling  before 
him — he  laid  for  a  little  while  the  same  cap, 
then  in  its  room  a  circlet  of  golden  leaves.  If 
he  was  sovereign  Count,  girt  with  the  sword,  then 
she  was  Countess  of  Anjou  before  her  grudging 
world.  What  more  was  she?  Wife  of  a  dead 
man  and  his  killer!  The  words  stayed  by  her, 
and  tinged  the  whole  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

OF  WHAT  KING   RICHARD   SAID  TO  THE    BOWING  ROOD; 
AND   WHAT  JEHANE  TO   KING  RICHARD 

Miracles,  as  a  plain  man,  I  hold  to  be  the  peculiar 
of  the  Church.  This  chapter  must  be  Milo's  on 
that  ground,  if  there  were  no  other.  But  there  is 
one  strong  other.  Milo  set  the  tune  which  caused 
King  Richard  to  dance.  And  a  very  good  tune  it 
is  —  according  to  Milo.  Therefore  let  him  speak. 
*  The  office  of  Abbot,'  he  writes,  *  is  a  solemn, 
great  office,  being  no  less  than  that  of  spiritual 
father  to  a  family  of  men  consecrate  (as  it  is  writ- 
ten, Abba,  father) ;  yet  not  on  that  account  should 
vainglory  puff  the  cheeks  of  a  pious  man.  God 
knows  that  I  am  no  boaster.  He,  therefore,  will 
not  misjudge  me,  as  certain  others  have  done, 
when  I  record  in  this  place  (for  positive  cause 
and  reason  good)  the  exorbitant  honours  I  re- 
ceived on  the  day  of  my  lord  Saint  John  Baptist 
in  this  year  of  thankful  redemption  eleven  hun- 
dred and  eighty-nine.  Forsooth,  I  myself,  this 
Milo  of  Saint  Mary-of-the-Pine,  was  chosen  to 
preach  in  the  church  of  the  nuns  of  Fontevrault 
before  a  congregation  thus  composed :  —  Two 
kings  (one  crowned),  one  legate  a  latere,  a  reign- 
ing duke  (him  of  Burgundy,  I  mean),  five  cinc- 
tured counts,  twice  three  bishops,  abbots  without 
number;  Jehane  Countess  of  Anjou  and  wife  to 

is6 


CH.  XIV  THE  BOWING  ROOD  157 

the  King  of  England,  the  Countess  of  Roussillon, 
the  two  Countesses  of  Angoulesme  (the  old  and  the 
young),  Lady  Elis  of  Montfort  (reputed  the  most 
witty  lady  in  Languedoc),  thirteen  pronounced 
poets,  and  the  hairdresser  of  the  King  of  France 
—  to  name  no  more.  That  sermon  of  mine  —  I 
shame  not  to  report  it  —  was  found  worthy  the 
inscription  in  the  Register  of  Fontevrault;  and 
in  the  initial  letter  thereof,  garlanded  in  gold 
work  very  beautiful  to  be  seen,  is  the  likeness  of 
myself  vested,  with  a  mitre  on  my  head,  all  done 
by  that  ingenious  craftsman  and  faithful  Christian 
man,  Aristarchus  of  Byzantium,  suspirante  deo. 
There  the  curious  may  consult  it,  as  indeed  they 
do.  I  hope  I  know  the  demands  of  history  upon 
proportion  better  than  to  write  it  all  here.  Briefly 
then,  a  second  Peter,  I  stood  up  before  that 
crowned  assembly  and  was  bold. 

*  What,  I  said,  is  Pharaoh  but  a  noise  ?  How 
else  is  Father  Abraham  but  dusty  in  his  cave? 
Duke  Lot  hath  a  monument  less  durable  than  his 
wicked  wife's ;  and  as  for  Noe,  that  great  admiral, 
the  waters  of  oblivion  have  him  whom  the  waters 
of  God  might  not  drown.  Conquered  lies  uncon- 
quered  Agamemnon;  how  else  lies  Julius  Caesar? 
Nabuchodonosor,  eater  of  grass,  what  is  he  ?  Kings 
pass,  and  their  royal  seat  gathereth  a  little  dust. 
Anon  with  a  besom  of  feathers  cometh  Time  the 
chamberlain,  and  scareth  to  his  hiding-place  the 
lizard  on  the  wall.  Think  soberly,  O  ye  kings ! 
I  how  your  crowns  are  but  yellow  metal,  and  your 
purple  robes  the  food  of  moths,  and  the  sceptres 
of  your  power  no  better  than  hedge-twigs  for  the 
driving  of  rats.     Round  about  your  crystal  orbs 


iS8  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  BK.r 

scurry  the  fleas  at  play  in  the  night-time;  in  a 
little  while  the  joints  of  your  legs  will  grapple 
the  degrees  of  your  thrones  with  no  more  zest 
than  an  old  bargeman's  his  greasy  poop. 

'  At  this  King  Philip  said  Tush,  and  fidgeted 
in  his  chair.  He  might  have  put  me  out  of 
countenance,  but  that  I  saw  King  Richard  clasp 
his  knee  and  smile  into  the  rafters,  and  knew  by 
the  peaking  of  his  beard  that  I  had  pleased  him. 

'  Thus  by  precept,  by  trope  and  flower  of  speech, 
I  gaufred  the  edges  of  my  discourse;  then  turning 
eastward  with  a  cry,  I  grasped  the  pulpit  firmly 
with  one  hand,  the  while  I  raised  the  other.  Sor- 
row, I  said,  is  more  enduring  than  the  pride  of  life, 
my  lords,  and  to  renounce  than  to  heap  riches. 
Behold  the  King  of  Sorrows !  Behold  the  Man 
beggared !  Ai,  ai,  my  lords !  is  there  to  be  no 
end  to  His  sorrows,  or  shall  He  be  stripped  for 
ever?  Yesterday  He  put  off  life  itself,  and  to-day 
ye  bid  Him  do  away  with  the  price  of  life.  Yes- 
terday He  hung  upon  the  Tree;  and  to-day  ye 
hear  it  said,  Down  with  the  Tree ;  let  Mahomet 
kindle  his  hearth  with  it.  Let  us  be  done,  say 
you,  with  dead  Lords  and  wooden  stocks :  we  are 
kings,  and  our  stocks  golden.  It  is  well  said,  my 
lords,  after  the  fashion  this  world  holds  honour- 
able. But  I  ask,  did  Job  fear  God  for  nought.'^ 
But  I  say,  consider  the  Maccabees.  All  your 
broad  lands  are  not  worth  the  rent  of  that  little 
garden  enclosed,  where  among  ranked  lilies  sat 
Mary  singing,  God  rest  Thee,  babe,  I  am  Thy 
mother  and  daughter.  You  wag  the  head  and 
an  enemy  dieth.  You  say,  Come  up,  and  some 
wretch  getteth  title  to  make  others  wretched.    But 


CH.XIV  THE  BOWING  ROOD  159 

no  power  of  life  and  member,  no  fountain  of 
earthly  honour,  no  great  breath  nor  acclamation 
of  trumpets,  nor  bearing  of  swords  naked,  nor 
chrism,  nor  broad  seal,  nor  homage,  nor  fealty 
done,  is  worth  that  doom  of  the  Lord  to  a  man ; 
saying,  I  was  naked  (Christ  is  naked ! )  and  ye 
clothed  Me;  I  was  anhungered  (Christ  is  hungry!) 
and  ye  gave  Me  meat;  I  was  in  prison  (so  is 
Christ!)  and  ye  visited  Me.  Therefore  again  I 
say  unto  you,  Kings,  by  the  spirit  of  the  Lord 
which  is  in  me,  Let  us  now  go  even  unto  Bethle- 
hem. Awake,  do  on  your  panoplies,  shake  your 
sceptres  over  the  armied  earth  !  So  Hierusalem, 
that  bride  among  brides,  that  exalted  virgin,  that 
elect  lady  crowned  with  stars,  shall  sit  no  longer 
wasted  in  the  brothel  of  the  heathen :  Amen ! 

*  I  said ;  and  a  great  silence  fell  on  all  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  church.  King  Richard 
sat  up  stiff  as  a  tree,  staring  at  the  Holy  Rood  as 
though  he  had  a  vision  of  something  at  work. 
King  Philip  of  France,  moody,  was  watching  his 
greater  brother.  Count  John  of  Mortain  had  his 
head  sunk  to  his  breast-bone,  his  thin  hands  not 
at  rest,  but  one  finger  picking  ever  at  another. 
Even  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  the  burly  eater, 
was  moved,  as  could  be  seen  by  the  working  of 
his  cheek-bones.  Two  nuns  were  carried  out  for 
dead.  All  this  I  saw  between  my  hands  as  I 
knelt  in  prayer.  But  much  more  I  saw :  it  seems 
that  I  had  called  down  testimony  from  on  high. 
I  saw  Countess  Jehane,  half-risen  from  her  seat, 
white  in  the  face,  open-mouthed,  gaping  at  the 
Cross.  "Saviour,  the  Rood!  the  Rood!"  she 
cried  out,  choking,  then  fell  back  and  lay  quite 


i6o  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

still.  Many  rose  to  their  feet,  some  dropped  to 
their  knees  ;  all  looked. 

*  We  saw  the  great  painted  Christ  on  the  Rood 
stoop  His  head  forward  thrice.  At  the  first  and 
second  times,  amid  cries  of  wonder,  men  looked  to 
see  whither  He  bent  His  head.  But  at  the  third 
time  all  with  one  consent  fell  upon  their  faces, 
except  only  Richard  King  of  England.  He, 
indeed,  rose  up  and  stood  to  his  full  height.  I 
saw  his  blue  eyes  shine  like  sapphires  as  he 
began  to  speak  to  the  Christ.  Though  he  spoke 
measuredly  and  low,  you  could  mark  the  exulta- 
tion singing  behind  his  tones. 

'  "  Ah,  now,  my  Lord  God,"  said  he, "  I  perceive 
that  Thou  hast  singled  me  out  of  all  these  peers 
for  a  work  of  Thine ;  which  is  a  thing  so  glorious 
for  me  that,  if  I  glory  in  it,  I  am  justified,  since 
the  work  is  glorious.  I  take  it  upon  me,  my 
Lord,  and  shall  not  falter  in  it  nor  be  slow. 
Enough  said:  Thou  askest  not  words  of  me. 
Now  let  me  go,  that  the  work  may  begin."  After 
which,  very  devoutly  kneeling,  he  signed  to  the 
Archbishop  of  Tours,  who  sat  in  the  sedilia  of 
the  sanctuary,  to  affix  the  Cross  to  his  shoulder. 
Which  was  done,  and  afterwards  to  most  of  the 
company  then  present  —  to  King  Philip,  to  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  to  Henry  Count  of  Cham- 
pagne, Bertram  Count  of  Roussillon,  and  Ray- 
moTxd  Count  of  Toulouse ;  to  many  bishops ; 
also  to  James  d'Avesnes,  William  des  Barres, 
and  to  Eustace  Count  of  Saint- Pol,  the  brother 
of  Countess  Jehane.  But  Count  John  took  no 
Cross,  nor  did  Geoffrey  the  bastard  of  Anjou. 
Afterwards,    I   believe,    these    two    worked    the 


CH.  XIV  THE   BOWING   ROOD  i6i 

French  King  into  a  fury  because  Richard  should 
have  taken  upon  him  the  chief  place  in  this 
miraculous  adventure.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy 
was  not  at  all  pleased  either.  But  everybody 
else  knew  that  it  was  to  King  Richard  the  Holy 
Rood  had  pointed ;  and  he  knew  it  himself,  and 
events  proved  it  so. 

*  But  that  night  after  supper  he  and  King 
Philip  kissed  each  other,  and  swore  brotherhood 
on  their  sword-hilts  before  all  the  peers.  I  am 
not  one  to  deny  generous  moments  to  that  politic 
prince ;  this  I  consider  to  have  been  one,  evoked 
certainly  by  the  nobility  of  King  Richard.  That 
appointed  champion's  exaltation  still  burned  in 
him ;  he  was  fiercely  excited,  his  eyes  were  bright 
with  fever  of  fire.  "  Hey,  Philip,"  he  laughed, 
"  now  you  and  I  must  cross  the  sea  !  And  you 
a  bad  sailor,  Philip  I  " 

* "  Tis  so,  indeed,  Richard,"  says  King  Philip, 
looking  rather  foolish.  King  Richard  clapped 
him  on  the  shoulder.  "  A  stout  heart,  my  Philip," 
he  says,  "  is  betokened  by  your  high  stomach. 
That  shall  stand  us  in  a  good  stead  in  Palestine." 
Then  it  was  that  King  Philip  kissed  him,  and 
him  King  Richard  again. 

*  He  was  in  great  heart  that  day,  full  to  the 
neck  with  hope  and  adventure.  I  would  like  to 
see  the  man  or  woman  to  have  denied  him  any- 
thing. At  times  like  these  he  was  (I  do  not  seek 
to  disguise  it)  a  frank  lover.  Non  omnia possumus 
omnes ;  if  any  man  think  he  must  have  been 
Galahad  the  Bloodless  Knight  because  he  had 
been  singled  out  by  the  questing  Rood,  he  knows 
little  how  high  ventures  foment  rich  blood.     Lan- 


r62  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

celot  he  never  was,  to  love  broadcast ;  but  Tris- 
tram, rather,  lover  of  one  woman.  Hope,  pride, 
knowledge  of  his  force,  ran  tingling  in  him  ;  per- 
haps he  saw  her  fairer  than  any  woman  could 
have  been ;  perhaps  he  saw  her  rosy  through  his 
sanguine  eyes.  He  clipped  her  in  his  arms  in 
full  hall  that  night  in  a  way  that  made  her  rosy 
enough.  Not  that  she  denied  him :  good  heaven, 
who  was  she  to  do  that  ?  There  as  he  had  her 
close  upon  his  breast  he  kissed  her  a  dozen  times, 
and  "  Jehane,  wilt  thou  fare  with  me  to  England  ? " 
he  asked  her  fondly,  "  or  must  I  leave  thee  peak- 
ing here,  my  Countess  of  Anjou  ?  " 

'  She  would  have  had  her  own  answer  ready  to 
that,  good  soul,  but  that  the  leper  gave  her 
another.  In  a  low,  urgent  voice  she  answered, 
"  Ah,  sweet  lord,  I  must  never  leave  thee  now  "  — 
as  if  to  ask,  Was  there  need  ?  So  he  went  on 
talking  to  her,  lover  talk,  teasing  talk,  to  see  what 
she  would  say ;  and  all  the  while  Jehane  stood 
very  near  him,  with  her  face  held  between  his  two 
hands  as  closely  as  wine  is  held  by  a  cup.  To 
whatever  he  chose  to  say,  and  in  whatever  fash- 
ion, whether  strokingly  (as  to  a  beloved  child), 
or  gruffly  (in  sport)  as  one  speaks  to  a  pet  dog, 
she  replied  in  very  meek  manner,  eyeing  him 
intently,  "Yea,  Richard,"  or  "Nay,  Richard," 
agreeing  with  him  always.  This  he  observed. 
"  They  call  me  Yea-and-Nay,  dear  girl,"  he  said, 
"  and  thou  hast  learned  it  of  them.  But  I  warn 
thee,  Jehane,  ma  mie,  I  am  in  a  mood  of  Yea  this 
night.     Therefore  deny  me  not." 

* "  Lord,  I  shall  never  deny  thee,"  says  Jehane, 
red  as  a  rose.     And  reason  enough !     I  remem- 


CH.  XIV  THE   BOWING  ROOD  163 

bered  the  words ;  for  while  she  said  them,  it  is 
certain  she  was  praying  how  best  she  might  make 
herself  a  liar,  like  Saint  Peter. 

'  Pretty  matters  !  on  the  faith  I  profess.  And 
if  a  man,  who  is  king  of  men,  may  not  play  with 
his  young  wife,  I  know  not  who  may  play  with 
her.  That  is  my  answer  to  King  Philip  Augus- 
tus, who  fretted  and  chafed  at  this  harmless  per- 
formance. As  for  Saint-Pol,  who  ground  his 
teeth  over  it,  I  would  have  a  different  answer  for 
him.' 

I  have  given  Milo  his  full  tether;  but  there  are 
things  to  say  which  he  knew  nothing  about. 
Richard  was  changed,  for  all  his  wild  mood  of 
that  night ;  nor  was  Jehane  slow  to  perceive  it. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  she  was  too  quick,  with  her  wit 
oversharpened  by  her  uneasy  conscience.  But 
that  night  she  saw,  or  thought  she  saw  this  in 
Richard:  that  whereas  the  righting  of  her  had 
been  his  only  concern  before  the  day  of  the  bowing 
Rood,  now  he  had  another  concern.  And  the  next 
day,  when  at  dawn  he  left  her  and  was  with  his 
Council  until  dinner,  she  knew  it  for  sure.  After 
dinner  (which  he  scarcely  ate)  he  rose  and  visited 
King  Philip.  With  him,  the  Legate  and  the  Arch- 
bishops, he  remained  till  late  at  night.  Day 
succeeded  day  in  this  manner.  The  French  King, 
the  Duke,  and  their  trains  went  to  Paris.  Then 
came  Guy  of  Lusignan,  King  (and  no  king)  of 
Jerusalem,  for  help.  Richard  promised  him  his, 
not  because  he  liked  him  any  better  than  the 
Marquess  (who  kept  him  out),  but  because  Guy's 
title  seemed  to  him  a  good  one.  At  bottom 
Richard  was   as  deliberate  as  a  pair  of  scales; 


1 64  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

and  just  now  was** acting  the  perfect  king,  the 
very  touchstone  of  justice.  Through  all  this 
time  of  great  doings  Jehane  stayed  quaking  at 
home,  sitting  strangely  among  her  women  —  a 
countess  who  knew  she  was  none,  a  queen  by 
nature  who  dreaded  to  be  queen  by  law.  Yet 
one  thing  she  dreaded  more.  She  was  in  a 
horrible  pass.  Wife  of  a  dead  man  and  his 
killer  1  Why,  what  should  she  do?  She  dared 
not  go  on  playing  wife  to  the  champion  of 
heaven,  and  yet  she  dared  not  leave  him  lest  she 
should  be  snatched  into  the  arms  of  his  assassin. 
On  which  horn  should  she  impale  her  poor  heart } 
She  tried  to  wring  prayers  out  of  it,  she  tried  to 
moisten  her  aching  eyes  with  the  dew  of  tears. 
Slowly,  by  agony  of  effort,  she  approached  her 
bosom  to  the  steel.  One  night  Richard  came 
to  her,  and  she  drove  herself  to  speak.  He  came, 
and  she  fenced  him  off. 

'  Richard,  O  Richard,  touch  me  not ! ' 

'  God  on  the  Cross,  what  is  this  ? ' 

'  Touch  me  not,  touch  me  never ;  but  never 
leave  me!' 

'  O  my  pale  rose !  O  fair-girdled ! '  She  stood 
up,  white  as  her  gown,  transfigured,  very  serious. 

*  I  am  not  thy  wife,  Richard ;  I  am  no  man's 
wife.  No,  but  I  am  thy  slave,  bound  to  thee  by 
a  curse,  held  from  thee  by  thy  high  calling.  I 
dare  not  leave  thee,  my  Richard,  nor  dare  stay 
by  thee  so  close,  lest  ruin  come  of  it' 

Richard  watched  her,  frowning.  He  was  much 
moved,  but  thought  of  what  she  said. 

*  Ruin,  Jehane,  ruin  ? ' 

'  Ruin  of  thy  venture,  my  knight  of  God  I    Ah, 


CH.  XIV  THE  BOWING  ROOD  165 

chosen,  elect,  comrade  of  the  Rood,  gossip  of  Jesus 
Christ,  duke  dedicate  ! '  She  was  hued  Hke  flame 
as  the  great  thoughts  leaped  in  her.  '  Ah,  my 
Christian  King,  it  is  so  little  a  thing  I  ask  of  thee, 
to  set  me  apart !  What  am  I  to  thee,  whose  bride 
is  the  virgin  city,  the  holy  place  ?  What  is  Jehane, 
a  poor  thing  handed  about,  to  vex  heaven,  or  be  a 
stumbling-block  in  the  way  of  the  Cross  ?  Put  me 
away,  Richard,  let  me  go;  have  done  with  me, 
sweet  lord.'  And  then  swiftly  she  ran  and  clasped 
his  knees :  '  But  ask  me  not  to  leave  thee  —  no,  but 
I  dare  not  indeed!'  Her  tears  streamed  freely 
now.  When  Richard  with  a  cry  snatched  her  up, 
she  lay  weeping  like  a  lost  child  in  his  arms. 

He  laid  her  on  the  bed,  worn  frail  by  the  strife 
she  had  endured  ;  she  had  no  strength  to  open  her 
eyes,  but  moved  her  lips  to  thank  him  for  his  pains. 
At  first  she  turned  her  head  from  side  to  side, 
seeking  a  cool  place  on  the  pillow  ;  later  she  fell 
into  a  heavy,  drugged  sleep.  He  watched  her  till 
it  was  nearly  light,  brooding  over  her  unconscious 
face.  No  thoughts  of  a  king  were  his,  I  think ; 
but  once  more  he  lapped  them  in  that  young  girl's 
bosom,  and  let  them  sway,  ebb  and  flow,  with  it. 

On  the  flow,  great  with  her  theme,  he  saw  her 
inspired,  standing  with  her  torch  of  flame  to  point 
his  road.  A  splintry  way  leads  to  the  Cross,  where 
even  kings  consecrate  must  tear  their  feet.  If  he 
knew  himself,  as  at  such  naked  hours  he  must,  he 
knew  whither  his  heart  was  set.  He  was  to  lead 
the  armies  of  Christendom,  because  no  other  man 
could  do  it.  Had  he  any  other  pure  and  stern 
desire  but  that?  None.  If  he  could  win  back 
the  Sepulchre,  new  plant  the  Holy  Cross,  set  a 


1 66  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Christian  king  on  the  throne  below  Golgotha, 
keep  word  with  God  Who  had  bowed  to  him 
from  the  Rood,  give  the  heathen  sword  for  sword, 
and  hold  the  armed  world  like  a  spear  in  his  hand, 
to  shake  as  he  shook  —  God  of  all  power  and 
might,  was  this  not  worthy  his  heart? 

His  heart  and  Jehane's !  The  flowing  bosom 
ebbed,  and  drained  him  of  all  but  pity.  He  saw 
her  like  a  dead  flower,  wan,  bruised,  thrown  away. 
Robbery!  He  had  stolen  her  by  force.  He 
clenched  his  two  hands  about  his  knee  and  shook 
himself  to  and  fro.  Thief  1  Damned  thief! 
Had  he  made  her  amends  ?  He  groaned.  Not 
yet.  Should  she  not  be  crowned  .^^  She  prayed 
that  she  might  not  be.  She  meant  that ;  all  her 
soul  came  sobbing  to  her  lips  as  she  prayed  him. 
He  could  not  deny  her  that  prayer.  If  she  would 
not  mount  his  throne,  she  should  not  —  he  was 
King.  But  that  other  bidding:  Touch  me  not, 
she  said.  He  looked  at  her  sleeping  ;  her  bosom 
filled  and  lifted  his  hand.  God  have  no  mercy  on 
him  if  he  denied  her  that  either.  *  So  take  Thou, 
God,  my  heart's  desire,  if  I  give  her  not  hers.' 
Then  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead  ;  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  feebly,  half  awake. 

He  was  not  a  man,  I  say  it  again,  at  the  mercy 
of  women's  lure.  Milo  was  right ;  he  was  Tristram, 
not  Galahad  nor  Lancelot ;  a  man  of  cold  appetite, 
a  man  whose  head  was  master,  touched  rarely,  and 
then  stirred  only  to  certain  deeps.  So  far  as  he 
could  love  woman  born  he  loved  Jehane,  saw 
her  exceedingly  lovely,  loved  her  proud  remote 
spirit,  her  nobility,  her  sobriety.  He  saw  her 
bodily  perfections   too,  how  splendid   a  person, 


CH.  XIV  THE   BOWING   ROOD  167 

how  sumptuous  in  hue  and  light.  Admiring, 
taking  glory  in  these,  yet  he  required  the  sting 
of  another  man's  hand  upon  her  to  seize  her  for 
himself.  For  purposes  of  policy,  for  ends  which 
seemed  to  him  good,  he  could  have  lived  with 
Jehane  as  a  brother  with  a  sister:  one  thing 
provided,  Let  no  other  man  touch. 

Now  this  policy  was  imperative,  this  end  God 
said  was  good.  Jehane  implored  with  tears,  Christ 
called  from  the  Cross  ;  so  King  Richard  fell  upon 
his  knees  and  kissed  the  girl's  forehead.  When 
he  left  her  that  morning  he  sought  out  Milo  and 
confessed  his  sins.  Shriven  he  arose,  to  do  what 
remained  in  the  west  before  he  could  be  crowned 
in  Rouen,  and  crowned  in  Westminster. 


CHAPTER   XV 

LAST    TENZON  OF  BERTRAN  DE  BORN 

I  WISH  to  be  done  with  Bertran  de  Born,  that 
lagging  fox ;  but  the  dogs  of  my  art  must  make  a 
backward  cast  if  they  are  to  kill  him  in  the  open. 
I  beg  the  reader,  then,  to  remember  that  when 
Richard  left  him  half-throttled  in  his  own  house, 
and  when  he  had  recovered  wind  enough  to  stir 
his  gall,  he  made  preparations  for  a  long  journey 
to  the  South.  In  that  scandal  concerning  Alois 
of  France  he  believed  he  had  stuff  which  might 
wreck  Count  Richard  more  disastrously  than 
Count  Richard  could  wreck  him.  He  hoped  to 
raise  the  South,  and  thither  he  went,  his  own 
dung-fly,  buzzing  over  the  offal  he  had  blown; 
and  the  first  point  he  headed  for  was  Pampluna 
across  the  Pyrenees.  It  is  folly  to  dig  into  the 
mind  of  a  man  diseased  by  malice ;  better  treat 
such  like  sour  ground,  burn  with  lime  (or  let  God 
burn)  and  abide  the  event  in  faith.  If  of  all  men 
in  the  world  Bertran  hated  Richard  of  Anjou,  it 
was  not  because  Richard  had  misused  him,  but 
because  he  had  used  him  too  lightly.  Richard, 
offended  with  Bertran,  gave  him  a  flick  on  the 
ear  and  sent  him  to  the  devil  with  his  japes.  He 
did  no  more  because  he  valued  him  no  more.  He 
thought  him  a  perverse  rascal,  glorious  poet,  ill- 
conditioned  vassal,  untimely  parasite  of  his  father's^ 

i68  ik 


CH.  XV  BERTRAN'S   LAST  SHIFT  169 

realm.  He  knew  he  had  caused  endless  mischief, 
but  he  could  not  hate  such  a  cork  on  a  water- 
spray.  Now,  it  fretted  Bertran  to  white  heat  that 
he  should  be  despised  by  a  great  man.  It  seemed 
that  at  last  he  could  do  him  considerable  harm. 
He  could  embroil  him  with  two  kings,  France 
and  England,  and  induce  a  third  to  harass  him 
from  the  South.  So  he  crossed  the  mountains 
and  went  into  Navarre. 

Over  those  stony  ridges  and  bare  fields  Don 
Sancho  was  king,  the  seventh  of  his  name ;  and 
he  kept  his  state  in  the  city  of  Pampluna.  Re- 
puted the  wisest  prince  of  his  day,  it  is  certain 
that  he  had  need  to  be  so,  such  neighbours  as  he 
had.  West  of  him  was  Santiago,  south  of  him 
Castile.  These  two  urgent  kings,  edging  (as  it 
were)  on  the  same  bench  with  him,  made  his  seat 
a  shifty  comfort.  No  sooner  had  he  warmed 
himself  a  place  than  he  was  hoist  to  a  cold  one. 
In  front  of  him,  over  against  the  sun,  he  saw 
Philip  of  France  pinched  to  the  same  degree 
between  England  and  Burgundy,  eager  to  stretch 
his  extremities  since  he  could  not  broaden  his 
sides.  Don  Sancho  had  no  call  to  love  France ; 
but  he  feared  England  greatly  —  the  horrible  old 
brindled  Lion,  and  Richard,  offspring  of  the 
Lion  and  the  Pard,  Richard  the  Leopard,  who 
made  more  songs  and  fought  more  quarrels  out 
than  any  Christian  prince.  Here  were  quodlibets 
for  Don  Sancho's  logic.  In  appearance  he  was 
a  pale  vexed  man,  with  anxious  eyes  and  a  thin 
beard,  at  which  (in  his  troubles)  he  plucked  as 
often  as  he  could  afford  the  hairs.  Next  to  his 
bleached  lands  he  loved  minstrels  and  physicians. 


I70  RICHARD   YEA-AND-N AY  bk.  i 

Averrhoes  was  often  at  his  court ;  so  were  Guil- 
lem  of  Cabestaing  and  Peire  Vidal.  He  knew 
and  went  so  far  as  to  love  Bertran  de  Born. 
Perhaps  he  was  not  too  good  a  Christian,  cer- 
tainly he  was  a  very  hungry  one ;  and  kings,  with 
the  rest  of  the  world,  are  to  be  judged  by  their 
necessities,  not  their  professions.  So  much  will 
suffice,  I  hope,  concerning  Don  Sancho  the 
Wise. 

In  those  days  which  saw  Count  Richard's  back 
turned  on  Autafort,  and  Saint-Pol's  broken  at 
Tours,  Bertran  de  Born  came  to  Pampluna,  ask- 
ing to  be  received  by  the  King  of  Navarre.  Don 
Sancho  was  glad  to  see  him. 

'  Now,  Bertran,'  says  he,  '  you  shall  give  me 
news  of  poets  and  the  food  of  poets.  All  the  talk 
here  is  of  bad  debts.' 

'  Oy,  sire,'  says  Bertran,  *  what  can  I  tell  you  ? 
The  land  is  in  flames,  the  women  have  streaked 
faces,  far  and  wide  travels  the  torch  of  war.' 

'  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,'  says  King  Sancho,  *  and 
trust  that  you  have  not  brought  one  of  those 
torches  with  you.' 

Bertran  shook  his  head ;  interruptions  worried 
him,  for  he  lived  maddeningly,  like  a  man  that 
has  a  drumming  in  his  ear. 

'  Sire,'  he  said,  '  there  is  a  new  strife  between 
the  Count  of  Poictou,  "  Yea-and-Nay,"  and  the 
French  King  on  this  account :  the  Count  repudi- 
ates Madame  Alois.' 

*  Now,  why  does  he  do  that,  Bertran  ? '  cried 
King  Sancho,  opening  his  eyes  wide. 

'  Sire,  it  is  because  he  pretends  that  his  father, 
the  old  King,  has  done  him  dishonour.     Says  the 


CH.  XV  BERTRAN'S   LAST  SHIFT  171 

Count,  Madame  Alois  might  be  my  stepmother, 
never  my  wife.' 

'  Deus  ! '  said  the  King.  *  Bertran,  is  this  the 
truth  ? ' 

That  was  a  question  for  which  Bertran  was 
fully  prepared.  He  always  had  it  put,  and  always 
gave  the  same  answer.  '  As  I  am  a  Christian, 
sire,'  he  said,  *the   Gospel  is  no  truer.' 

To  which  King  Sancho  replied,  '  I  do  most 
devoutly  believe  in  the  Holy  Gospel,  whatever 
any  Arabian  may  say  to  the  contrary.  But  is  it 
for  this,  pray,  that  you  propose  to  light  candles  of 
war  in  Navarre  ? ' 

'  Ah,'  said  Bertran,  with  his  hand  scratching  in 
his  vest,  '  I  light  no  candles,  my  lord ;  but  I  coun- 
sel you  to  light  them.' 

'  Phew ! '  said  King  Sancho,  and  stuck  his 
arms  out ;  '  on  whose  account,  Bertran,  on  whose 
account  ? ' 

Bertran  replied  savagely, '  On  account  of  Dame 
Alois  slandered,  of  her  brother  France  deceived 
in  his  hope,  of  the  English  King  strangely 
accused,  of  his  son  John  (a  hopeful  prince,  Benja- 
min of  a  second  Israel),  and  of  Queen  Eleanor  of 
England,  of  whose  kindred  your  Grace  is.' 

'  Deus !  Oy,  Deus ! '  cried  King  Sancho,  pale 
with  amazement,  'and  are  all  these  thrones  in 
arms,  lighting  candles  against  Count  Richard?' 

'  It  is  so  indeed,  sire,'  says  Bertran  ;  and  King 
Sancho  frowned,  with  this  comment  —  '  There 
seems  little  chivalry  here,  take  it  as  you  will.' 
Next  he  inquired,  where  was  the  Count  of  Poictou  ? 

Bertran  was  ready.  '  He  rages  his  lands,  sire, 
like  a  leopard  caged.     Now  and  again  he  raids 


172  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

the  marches,  harries  France  or  Anjou,  and  with- 
draws.' 

'  And  the  King  his  father,  Bertran,  where  is  he  ? 
Far  off,  I  hope.' 

'  He,'  said  Bertran,  '  is  in  Normandy  with  a 
host,  seeking  the  head  of  his  son  Richard  on  a 
charger.' 

'  The  great  man  that  he  is  I '  cried  Don  Sancho.    M 
Bertran  could  not  contain  himself. 

*  Great  or  not,  he  is  to  pay  his  debts  I  The  old 
rascal  stag  is  rotten  wuth  fever.' 

I  suppose  Don  Sancho  was  not  called  Wise  for 
nothing.    At  any  rate  he  sat  for  a  while  consider- 
ing the  man  before  him.     Then  he  asked,  where    i 
was  King  Philip  ? 

'Sire,'  replied  Bertran,  *he  is  in  his  city  of 
Paris,  comforting  Dame  Alois,  and  assembling 
his  estates  for  Count  Richard's  flank.' 

'And  Prince  John.?' 

*  Oh,  sire,  he  has  friends.  He  waits.  Watch 
for  him  presently.' 

King  Sancho  frowned  his  forehead  into  furrows, 
and  allowed  himself  a  hair  or  two  of  his  beard. 
'  We  will  think  of  it,  Bertran,'  he  said  presently. 
'  Yes,  we  will  think  of  it,  after  our  own  fashion. 
God  rest  you,  Bertran,  pray  go  refresh  yourself.' 
So  he  dismissed  him. 

When  he  was  alone  he  went  on  frowning,  and 
between  whiles  tapped  his  teeth  with  his  beard- 
comb.  He  knew  that  Bertran  had  not  come 
lying  for  nothing  to  Pampluna;  he  must  find 
out  on  whose  account  he  was  lying,  and  upon 
what  rock  of  truth  (if  any  at  all)  he  had  built 
up  his  lies.     Was  it  because  he  hated  the  father, 


CH.  XV  BERTRAN'S   LAST  SHIFT  173 

or  because  he  hated  the  son?  Or  because  he 
served  Prince  John?  Let  that  alone  for  a 
moment.  This  story  of  Alois:  it  must  be,  he 
thought,  either  true  or  false,  but  was  no  invention 
of  Bertran's.  Whichever  it  was,  King  Philip 
would  make  war  upon  King  Henry,  not  upon 
Richard;  since,  wanting  timber,  you  cut  at  the 
trunk,  not  at  the  branches.  He  believed  Bertran 
so  far,  that  the  Count  of  Poictou  was  in  his 
country,  and  King  Henry  with  a  host  in  his. 
War  between  Philip  and  the  Count  was  a  foolish- 
ness. Peace  between  the  Count  and  King  Henry 
was  another.  Don  Sancho  believed  (since  he 
believed  in  God)  that  old  King  Henry  was  at 
death's  door ;  and  he  saw  above  all  things  that,  if 
the  scandal  was  reasonably  founded,  there  would 
be  a  bachelor  prince  spoiling  for  wedlock.  On  all 
grounds,  therefore,  he  decided  to  write  privily  to 
his  kinswoman.  Queen  Eleanor  of  England. 

And  so  he  did,  to  a  very  different  tune 
from  that  imagined  by  Bertran,  the  letter  which 
follows :  — 

'  Madame  (Sister  and  Aunt),'  he  wrote,  '  this 
day  has  brought  tidings  to  my  private  ear  whereat 
in  part  I  mourn  with  you,  and  rejoice  in  part,  as  a 
wise  physician  who,  hearing  of  some  great  lover  in 
the  article  of  death,  knows  that  he  has  both  the 
wit  and  the  remedy  to  work  his  cure.  Madame, 
with  a  hand  upon  my  heart  I  may  certify  the  flow 
of  my  blood  for  the  causes,  serious  and  horrific, 
which  have  led  to  strife  between  your  exalted  lord 
and  most  dear  consort  in  Christ  Jesus,  my  lord 
Henry  the  pious  King  of  England  (whom  God 
assoil)  and  his  august  neighbour  of  France.    But, 


174  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Madame  (Sister  and  Aunt),  it  is  no  less  my  comfort 
to  affirm  that  the  estate  of  your  noble  son,  the 
Count  of  Poictou,  no  less  moves  my  anguish. 
What,  Madame !  So  fierce  a  youth  and  so 
strenuous,  widowed  of  his  hopeful  bed !  The 
face  of  Paris  with  the  fate  of  Menelaus!  The 
sweet  accomplishments  of  King  David  (chief  of 
trobadors)  and  the  ignominy  of  the  husband  of 
Bathshebal  You  see  that  my  eloquence  burns 
me  up ;  and  verily,  Madame  (Sister  and  Aunt), 
the  hot  coal  of  the  wrath  of  your  son  has  touched 
my  mouth,  so  that  at  the  last  I  speak  with  my 
tongue. 

*  I  ask  myself,  Madame,  why  do  not  the  virgins 
of  Christendom  arise  and  offer  their  unrifled  zones 
to  his  noble  fingers  ?  Sister  and  Aunt,  there  is 
one  at  least,  in  Navarre,  who  so  arises.  I  offer 
my  child  Berengere,  called  by  trobadors  (because 
of  her  chaste  seclusion)  Frozen  Heart,  to  be 
thawed  in  the  sun  of  your  son.  I  offer,  more- 
over, my  great  fiefs  of  Oliocastro,  Cingovilas, 
Monte  Negro,  and  Sierra  Alba  as  far  as  Agreda ; 
and  a  dowry  also  of  60,000  marks  in  gold  of 
Byzance,  to  be  numbered  by  three  bishops,  one 
each  of  our  choosing,  and  the  third  to  be  chosen 
by  our  lord  and  ghostly  father  the  Pope.  And 
I  offer  to  you,  Madame  (Sister  and  Aunt),  the 
devotion  of  a  brother  and  nephew,  the  right  hand 
of  concord,  and  the  kiss  of  peace.  I  pray  God 
daily  to  preserve  your  Celsitude.  —  From  our 
court  of  Pampluna,  etc.  Under  the  Privy  Signet 
of  the  King  himself  —  Sanchius  Navarrensium 
Rex,  Sapiens,  Pater  Patriae,  Pius,  Catholicus.' 

This  done,  and  means  taken  for  sure  despatch, 


CH.  XV  BERTRAN'S   LAST   SHIFT  175 

he  sends  for  the  virgin  in  question,  and  embrac- 
ing her  with  one  arm,  holds  her  close  to  his 
knee. 

'  My  child,'  he  says,  '  you  are  to  be  wedded  to 
the  greatest  prince  now  on  life,  the  pattern  of 
chivalry,  the  mirror  of  manly  beauty,  heir  to  a 
great  throne.     What  do  you  say  to  this  ? ' 

The  virgin  kept  her  eyes  down ;  a  very  faint 
flush  of  rose  troubled  her  cheek. 

'  I  am  in  your  hands,  sire,'  she  said,  whereupon 
Don  Sancho  enfolded  her. 

*  You  are  in  my  arms,  dear  child,'  he  testified. 
*Your  lord  will  be  King  of  England,  Duke  of 
Normandy  and  Aquitaine,  Count  of  Anjou, 
Poictou,  and  Maine,  and  lord  of  some  island  in 
the  western  sea  whose  name  I  have  forgotten.  He 
is  also  the  subject  of  prophecy,  which  (as  the 
Arabians  know  very  well)  declares  that  he  will 
rule  such  an  empire  as  Alexander  never  saw,  nor 
the  mighty  Charles  dreamed  of.  Does  this  please 
you,  my  child  ? ' 

'  He  is  a  very  great  lord,'  said  Berengere,  *  and 
will  be  a  great  king.  I  hope  to  serve  him  faith- 
fully.' 

'  By  Saint  James,  and  so  you  shall ! '  cried  the 
happy  Don  Sancho.  *  Go,  my  child,  and  say  your 
prayers.  You  will  have  something  to  pray  about 
at  last' 

She  was  the  only  daughter  he  had  left,  exorbi- 
tantly loved ;  a  little  creature  too  much  brocaded 
to  move,  cold  as  snow,  pious  as  a  virgin  enclosed, 
with  small  regular  features  like  a  fairy  queen's. 
She  had  a  narrow  mind,  and  small  heart  for 
meeting  tribulation,  which,   indeed,  she  seemed 


1 76  RICHARD  ,  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

never  likely  to  know.  Sometimes,  being  in  her 
robes  of  state,  crusted  with  gems,  crowned,  coifed, 
ringed,  she  looked  like  nothing  so  much  as  a 
stiff  doll-goddess  set  in  glass  over  an  altar.  It 
was  thus  she  showed  her  best,  when  with  fixed 
eyes  and  a  frigid  smile  she  stood  above  the 
court,  an  unapproachable  glittering  star  set  in 
the  clear  sky  of  a  night  to  give  men  hopes  of 
an  ordered  heaven.  It  was  thus  Bertran  de 
Born  had  seen  her,  when  for  a  time  his  hot 
and  wrong  heart  was  at  rest,  and  he  could  look 
on  a  creature  of  this  world  without  desire  to 
mar  it.  Half  in  mockery,  half  in  love,  he  called 
her  Frozen  Heart.  Later  on,  you  remember,  he 
called  Jehane  Bel  Vezer.  He  was  the  nicknamer 
of  Europe  in  his  day. 

So  now,  or  almost  so,  he  saw  her  new  come 
from  her  father's  side  —  a  little  flushed,  but  very 
much  the  great  small  lady,  ma  dame  Berengere 
of  Navarre. 

'  The  sun  shines  upon  my  Frozen  Heart,*  said 
Bertran.     She  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss. 

*  No  heart  of  yours  am  I,  Bertran,'  she  said ; 
*  but  chosen  for  a  king.' 

*  A  king,  lady !     Whom  then  ? ' 

She  answered,  '  A  king  to  be.  My  lord  Rich- 
ard of  Poictou.' 

He  clacked  his  tongue  on  his  palate,  and 
bolted  this  pill  as  best  he  could.  Bad  was  best. 
He  saw  himself  made  newly  so  great  a  fool  that 
he  dared  not  think  of  it.  If  he  had  known  at 
that  time  of  Richard's  dealing  with  Jehane 
Saint-Pol,  you  may  be  sure  he  would  have 
squirted   some  venom.     But   he   knew   nothing 


CH.  XV  BERTRAN'S   LAST  SHIFT  177 

at  all  about  it;  and  as  to  the  other  affair,  even 
he  dared  not  speak. 

*A  great  lord,  a  hot  lord,  a  very  strenuous 
lord ! '  he  said  in  jerks.  It  was  all  there  was 
to  say. 

'  He  is  a  prince  who  might  claim  a  lady's 
love,  I  suppose,'  said  Berengere,  with  consider- 
ing looks. 

*  Ho   ho !     And   so   he   has ! '    cried    Bertran. 

*  I  assure  your  Grace  he  is  no  novice.  Many 
he  has  claimed,  and  many  have  claimed  him. 
Shall  I  number  them  ? ' 

*  I  beg  that  you  will  not,'  she  said,  stiffening 
herself.  So  Bertran  grinned  his  rage.  But  he 
had  one  thing  to  say. 

.  'This  much  I  will  tell  you.  Princess.  The 
name  I  give  him  is  Yea-and-Nay:  beware  of  it. 
He  is  ever  of  two  minds:  hot  head  and  cold 
heart,  flaming  heart  and  chilled  head.  He  will 
be  for  God  and  the  enemy  of  God ;  will  expect 
heaven  and  tamper  with  hell.  With  rage  he 
will  go  up,  laughing  come  down.  Ho!  He 
will  be  for  you  and  against  you;  eager,  slow; 
a  wooer,  a  scorner;  a  singer  of  madrigals,  ah, 
and  a  croaker  afterwards.  There  is  no  stability 
in  him,  neither  length  of  love  nor  of  hate,  no 
bottom,  little  faith.'     Berengere  rose. 

'You  vex  yourself,  Bertran,  and  me  also,'  she  said. 

*  It  is  ill  talking  between  a  prince  and  his  friend.' 

'  Am  I  not  your  friend  then,  my  lady  ? '  he 
asked  her  with  bitterness. 

'  You  cannot  be  the  friend  of  a  prince,  Bertran,' 
said  Berengere  calmly.  His  muttered  '  O  God, 
the  true  word ! '  sufficed  him  for  thought  all  his 


178  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

road  from  Navarre.  He  went,  as  you  know 
already,  to  Poictiers,  where  Richard  was  making 
festival  with  Jehane. 

But  when,  unhappy  liar,  he  found  out  the  truth, 
it  came  too  late  to  be  of  service  to  his  designs. 
Don  Sancho,  he  learned,  was  beforehand  with  him 
even  there,  fully  informed  of  the  outrage  at  Gisors 
and  the  marriage  at  Poictiers,  with  very  clear 
views  of  the  worth  of  each  performance.  Bertran, 
gnashing  his  teeth,  took  up  the  service  of  the  man 
he  loathed;  gnashing  his  teeth,  he  let  Richard 
kiss  him  in  the  lists  and  shower  favours  upon  him. 
When  presents  of  stallions  came  from  Navarre  he 
began  to  see  what  Don  Sancho  was  about.  Any 
meeting  of  Richard  and  that  profound  schemer 
would  have  been  Bertran's  ruin.  So  when  Rich- 
ard was  King,  he  judged  it  time  to  be  off. 

'  Now  here,'  says  Abbot  Milo,  dealing  with  the 
same  topics,  '  I  make  an  end  of  Bertran  de  Born, 
who  did  enough  mischief  in  his  life  to  give  three 
kings  wretchedness  —  the  young  King  Henry, 
and  the  old  King  Henry,  and  the  new  King  Rich- 
ard. If  he  was  not  the  thorn  of  Anjou,  whose 
thorn  was  he.^^  Some  time  afterwards  he  died 
alone  and  miserable,  having  seen  (as  he  thought) 
all  his  plots  miscarry,  the  object  of  his  hatred  do 
the  better  for  his  evil  designs,  and  the  object  of 
his  love  the  better  without  them.  He  was  cast 
off.  His  peers  were  at  the  Holy  War,  his  enemy 
on  a  throne.  There  had  arisen  a  generation 
which  shrugged  at  his  eld,  and  remained  one 
which  still  thought  him  a  misgoverned  youth. 
Great  poet  he  was,  great  thief,  and  a  silly  fool. 
So  there's  an  end  of  him :  let  him  be.' 


CHAPTER   XVI 

CONVERSATION  IN  ENGLAND  OF  JEHANE  THE  FAIR 

It  was  in  the  gules  of  August,  we  read,  that  King 
Richard  set  out  for  his  duchy  and  kingdom,  on 
horseback,  riding  alone,  splendid  in  red  and  gold ; 
Countess  Jehane  in  a  litter ;  his  true  brother  and 
his  half-brother,  his  bishops,  his  chancellor,  and 
his  friends  with  him,  each  according  to  his  degree. 
They  went  by  Alen9on,  Lisieux,and  Pont  I'Eveque 
to  Rouen;  and  there  they  found  the  Queen-Mother, 
an  unquenchable  spirit.  One  of  Richard's  first 
acts  had  been  to  free  her  from  the  fortress  in 
which,  for  ten  years  or  more,  the  old  King  had 
kept  her.  There  were  no  prison-traces  upon  her 
when  she  met  her  son,  and  fixed  her  son's  mistress 
with  a  calculating  eye.  A  low-browed,  swarthy 
woman,  heavily  built,  with  the  wreck  of  great 
beauty  upon  her,  having  fingers  like  the  talons  of 
a  bird  and  a  trap-mouth ;  it  was  not  hard  to  see 
that  into  the  rocky  mortice  where  Richard  had 
been  cast  there  went  some  grains  of  flint  from  her. 
She  had  slow,  deliberate  movements  of  the  body, 
but  a  darting  mind ;  she  was  a  most  passionate 
woman,  but  frugal  of  her  passion,  eking  it  out  to 
cover  long  designs.  Whether  she  loved  or  hated 
—  and  she  could  glow  with  either  lust  until  she 
seemed  incandescent  —  she  went  slowly  to  work. 
The  quicker  she  saw,  the  slower  she  was  reducing 

179 


i8o  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

sight  into  possession.  With  all  this,  like  her  son 
Richard,  she  was  capable  of  strong  revulsions. 
Thus  she  had  loved,  then  hated  King  Henry; 
thus  she  was  to  spurn,  then  to  cling  to  Jehane. 

At  Rouen  she  did  her  best  to  crush  the  young 
girl  to  the  pavement  with  her  intolerable  flat- 
lidded  eyes.  When  Jehane  saw  her  stand  on  the 
steps  of  the  church  amidst  the  pomp  of  Normandy 
and  England — three  archbishops  by  her,  Will- 
iam Marshal,  WilHam  Longchamp,  the  earls,  the 
baronage,  the  knights,  heralds,  blowers  of  trump- 
ets ;  when  at  her  example  all  this  glory  of  Church 
and  State  bent  the  knee  to  Richard  of  Anjou,  and 
he,  kneeling  in  turn,  kissed  his  mother's  hand, 
then  rose  and  to  the  others  gave  his  to  be  kissed; 
when  he,  vowed  to  her,  pledged  to  her,  known  of 
her  more  secretly  than  of  any,  passed  through  the 
blare  of  horns  alone  into  the  soaring  nave  —  Je- 
hane shivered  and  crossed  herself,  faltered  a  little, 
and  might  have  fallen.  Her  King  was  doing  by 
her  as  she  had  prayed  him ;  but  the  scrutiny  of 
the  Queen-Mother  had  been  a  dry  gloss  to  the 
text.  She  had  been  able  to  bear  her  forsaking 
with  a  purer  heart,  but  for  the  narrow  eyes  that 
witnessed  it  and  gleamed.  One  of  her  ladies, 
Magdalene  Coucy,  put  an  arm  about  her;  so 
Countess  Jehane  stiffened  and  jerked  up  her  head, 
and  after  that  walked  with  no  more  faltering.  If 
she  had  seen,  as  Milo  saw,  Gilles  de  Gurdun 
glowering  at  her  from  a  corner,  it  might  have 
gone  hard  with  her.     But  she  did  not. 

They  crowned  Richard  Duke  of  Normandy, 
and  to  him  came  all  the  barons  of  the  duchy  one 
by  one,  to  do  him  homage.     And  first  the  Arch- 


CH.  XVI  JEHANE   IN   ENGLAND  i8i 

bishop  of  Rouen,  in  whose  allegiance  was  that  same 
Sir  Gilles.  But  Gilles  knew  very  well  that  there 
could  be  no  fealty  from  him  to  this  robber  of  a 
duke.  Gilles  had  seen  Jehane ;  and  when  he  could 
bear  the  sight  no  more  for  fear  his  eyes  should 
bleed,  he  went  and  walked  about  the  streets  to 
cool  his  head.  He  swore  by  all  the  saints  in 
the  calendar  of  Rouen  —  and  these  are  many  — 
that  he  would  close  this  account.  Let  him  be 
torn  apart  by  horses,  he  would  kill  the  man  who 
had  stolen  his  wife  and  killed  his  father  and 
brother,  were  he  duke,  king,  or  Emperor  of  the 
West.  Meantime,  in  the  church  that  golden- 
haired  duke,  set  high  on  the  throne  of  Normandy, 
received  between  his  hands  the  hands  of  the 
Normans;  and  in  a  stall  of  the  choir  Jehane 
prayed  fervently  for  him,  with  her  arms  enfolding 
her  bosom. 

Gilles  was  seen  again  at  Harfleur,  when  the 
King  embarked  for  England.  He  had  a  hood  over 
his  head ;  but  Milo  knew  him  by  the  little  steady 
eyes  and  bar  of  black  above.  When  the  great 
painted  sails  bellied  to  the  off-shore  wind  and 
the  dragon-standard  of  England  pointed  the 
sea-way  northward  into  the  haze,  Milo  saw  Gilles 
standing  on  the  mole,  a  little  apart  from  his  friends, 
watching  the  galley  which  took  Jehane  out  of 
reach. 

If  Milo  found  the  Normans  like  ginger  in  the 
mouth,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  English 
suited  him  any  better.  He  calls  them  '  fog- 
stewed,*  says  that  they  ate  too  much,  and  were 
as  proud  of  that  as  of  everything  else  they  did. 


i82  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

Luckily,  he  had  very  Httle  to  do  with  them,  though 
not  much  less,  perhaps,  than  his  master.  Dry  facts 
content  him  :  how  the  King  disembarked  at  South- 
ampton and  took  horse ;  how  he  rode  through 
forests  to  Winchester ;  how  there  he  was  met  by  the 
bishop,  heard  mass  in  the  minster,  and  departed  for 
Guildford ;  thence  again,  how  through  wood  and 
heath  they  came  to  Westminster  '  and  a  fair  church 
set  in  meadows  by  a  broad  stream  '  —  to  tell  this 
rapidly  contents  him.  But  once  in  London  the  story 
begins  to  concentrate.  It  is  clear  there  was  danger 
for  Jehane.  King  Richard,  it  seems,  caused  her  to 
be  lodged  '  in  a  place  of  nuns  over  the  river,  in  a 
place  which  is  called  in  English  Lamehithe.* 

This  was  quite  true ;  danger  there  was,  as 
Richard  saw,  who  knew  his  mother.  But  he  did 
not  then  know  how  quick  with  danger  the 
times  were.  The  Queen-Mother  had  upon  her 
the  letter  of  Don  Sancho  the  Wise,  and  to  her 
the  politics  of  Europe  were  an  open  book. 
One  holy  war  succeeded  another,  and  one  king ; 
but  what  king  that  might  be  depended  neither 
upon  holiness  nor  war  so  much  as  on  the  way 
each  was  used.  Marriage  with  Navarre  might 
push  Anjou  across  the  mountains ;  the  holy  war 
might  lift  it  across  the  sea.  Who  was  the 
'yellow-haired  King  of  the  West'  whom  they  of 
the  East  foretold,  if  not  her  goodly  son  ?     Should 

God  be  thwarted  by  a ?     She  hesitated  not 

for  a  word,  but  I  hesitate. 

If  the  Queen-Mother  was  afraid  of  anything  in 
the  world,  it  was  of  the  devil  in  the  race  she  had 
mothered.  It  had  thwarted  her  in  their  father, 
but  it  cowed  her  in  her  sons.     Most  of  all,  I  think, 


CH.  XVI  JEHANE   IN   ENGLAND  183 

in  Richard  she  feared  it,  because  Richard  could  be 
so  cold.  A  flamy  devil  as  in  young  Henry,  or  a 
brimstone  devil  as  in  Geoffrey  of  Brittany,  or  a 
spitfire  devil  as  was  John's  —  with  these  she  could 
cope,  her  lord  had  had  them  all.  But  in  Richard 
she  was  shy  of  the  bleak  isolation,  the  self-sufficing, 
the  hard,  chill  core.  She  dreaded  it,  yet  it  drew 
her ;  she  was  tempted  to  beat  vainly  at  it  for  the 
passion's  sake ;  and  so  in  this  case  she  dared  to 
do.  She  would  cheerfully  have  killed  the  minion, 
but  she  dared  the  King  first. 

When  she  opened  to  him  the  matter  of  Don 
Sancho's  letter,  none  knew  better  than  Richard 
that  the  matter  might  have  been  good.  Yet  he 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  it.  '  Madame,'  his 
words  were,  '  this  is  an  idle  letter,  if  not  imperti- 
nent. Don  Sancho  knows  very  well  that  I  am 
married  already.' 

*  Eh,  sire  !  Eh,  Richard ! '  said  the  Queen- 
Mother,  *then  he  knows  more  than  I.' 

'  I  think  not,  Madame,'  the  King  replied,  *  since 
I  have  this  moment  informed  you.' 

The  Queen  swallowed  this ;  then  said,  '  This 
wife  of  yours,  Richard,  who  is  not  Duchess  of 
Normandy,  will  not  be  Queen,  I  doubt  ? ' 

Richard's  face  grew  haggard ;  for  the  moment 
he  looked  old.     *  Such  again  is  the  fact,  Madame.' 

*  But '  the  Queen  began.     Richard  looked 

at  her,  so  she  ended  there. 

Afterwards  she  talked  with  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  with  the  Marshal,  with  Longchamp  of 
Ely,  and  her  son  John.  All  these  worthies  were 
pulling  different  ways,  each  trying  to  get  the  rope 
to  himself.     With  that  rope  John  hoped  to  hang 


i84  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

his  brother  yet.  *  Dearest  Madame/  he  said, 
'  Richard  cannot  marry  in  Navarre  even  if  he 
were  willing.  Once  he  has  been  betrothed,  and 
has  broken  plight ;  once  he  saw  his  mistress  be- 
trothed, and  broke  her  plight.  Now  he  is  wedded, 
or  says  that  he  is.  Suppose  that  you  get  him 
to  break  this  wedlock,  will  you  give  him  another 
woman  to  deceive.'^  There  is  no  more  faithless 
beast  in  the  world  than  Richard.' 

'  Your  words  prove  that  there  is  one  at  least,' 
said  the  Queen-Mother  with  heat.  '  You  speak 
very  ill,  my  son.'  J 

Said  John, '  And  he  does  very  ill,  by  the  Bread ! '  ' 
William  Marshal  interposed.  '  I  have  seen 
much  of  the  Countess  of  Anjou,  Madame,'  said 
this  honest  gentleman.  '  Let  me  tell  your  Grace 
that  she  is  a  most  exalted  lady.'  He  would  have 
said  more  had  the  Queen-Mother  endured  it,  but 
she  cried  out  upon  him. 

*  Anjou !     Who  dares  put  her  up  there  ? ' 

*  Madame,'  said  William,  '  it  was  my  lord  the 
King.'     The  Queen  fumed. 

Then  the  Archbishop  said,  *  She  is  nobly  born, 
of  the  house  of  Saint-Pol.  I  understand  that  she 
has  a  clear  mind.'  ,  . 

'  More,'  cried   the  Marshal,  *  she   has  a  cleaiSi 
heart!' 

'  If  she  had  nothing  clear  about  her  I  have  that 
which  would  bleach  her  white  enough,'  said  the 
Queen-Mother;  and  Longchamp,  who  had  said 
nothing  at  all,  grinned. 

In  the  event,  the  Queen  one  day  took  to  her 
barge,  crossed  the  river,  and  confronted  the  girl 
who  stood  between  England  and  Navarre. 


CH.xvi  JEHANE   IN-   ENGLAND  185 

Jehane,  who  was  sitting  with  her  ladies  at 
needlework,  was  not  so  scared  as  they  were. 
Like  the  nymphs  of  the  hunting  Maid  they  all 
clustered  about  her,  showing  the  Queen-Mother 
how  tall  she  was  and  how  nobly  figured.  She 
flushed  a  little  and  breathed  a  little  faster;  but 
making  her  reverence  she  recovered  herself,  and 
stood  with  that  curious  look  on  her  face,  half 
surprise,  half  discontent,  which  made  men  call 
her  the  sulky  fair.  So  the  Queen-Mother  read 
the  look. 

*  No  pouting  with  me,  mistress,'  she  said.  *  Send 
these  women  away.  It  is  with  you  I  have  to 
deal' 

'  Do  we  deal  singly,   Madame  ?  *  said  Jehane. 

*  Then  my  ladies  shall  seek  for  yours  the  comforts 
of  a  discomfortable  lodging.  I  am  sorry  I  have 
no  better.'  The  Queen-Mother  nodded  her 
people  out  of  the  room ;  so  she  and  Jehane  were 
left  alone  together. 

*  Mistress,'  said  the  Queen-Mother, '  what  is  this 
between  you  and  my  son  ?  Playing  and  kissing 
are  to  be  left  below  the  degrees  of  a  throne.  Let 
there  be  no  more  of  it.  Do  you  dare,  are  you  so 
hardy  in  the  eyes,  as  to  look  up  to  a  kingly  seat, 
or  measure  your  head  for  a  king's  crown  ? ' 

Jehane  had  plenty  of  spirit,  which  a  very  little 
of  this  sort  of  talk  would  have  fanned  into  a  flame ; 
but  she  had  irony  too. 

'Madame,  alas! '  she  said,  with  a  hint  of  shrug- 
ging ;  *  if  I  have  worn  the  Count's  cap  I  know  the 
measure  of  my  head.' 

The    Queen-Mother    took    her   by   the   wrist. 

*  My  girl,'  said  she,  '  you  know  very  well  that  you 


i86  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

are  no  Countess  at  all  in  my  son's  right,  but  are  ^ 
what  one  of  your  nurture  should  not  be.  And 
you  shall  understand  that  I  am  a  plain-dealer  in 
such  affairs  when  they  concern  this  realm,  and 
have  bled  little  heifers  like  you  whiter  than  veal 
and  as  cold  as  most  of  the  dead ;  and  will  do  it 
again  if  need  be.' 

Jehane  did  not  flinch  nor  turn  her  eyes  from 
considering  her  whitening  wrist. 

*  Oh,  Madame,'  she  says,  '  you  will  never  bleed 
me ;  I  am  quite  sure  of  that.  Alas,  it  would  be 
well  if  you  could,  without  offence.' 

*  Why,  whom  should  I  offend  then  ? '  the  Queen 
said,  sniffing  —  *  your  ladyship  ? ' 

'  A  greater,'  said  Jehane. 

*  You  think  the  King  would  be  offended.?' 

'  Madame,'  Jehane  said,  *  he  could  be  offended ;     , 
but  so  would  you  be.' 

The  Queen-Mother  tightened  hold.  *  I  am  not 
easily  offended,  mistress,'  she  said,  and  smiled 
rather  bleakly. 

Jehane  also  smiled,  but  with  patience,  not  trying 
to  get  free  her  wrist. 

*  My  blood  would  offend  you.  You  dare  not 
bleed  me.' 

*  Death  in  life  ! '  the  Queen  cried,  *  is  there  any 
but  the  King  to  stop  me  now  ? ' 

'  Madame,'  Jehane  answered,  *  there  is  the 
spoken  word  against  you,  the  spirit  of  prophecy.' 

Then  her  jailer  saw  that  Jehane's  eyes  were 
green,  and  very  steady.     This  checked  her. 

'  Who  speaks  ?     Who  prophesies  ? '  ^j 

Jehane  told  her,  *  The  leper  in  a  desert  place,  - 
saying,  "  Beware  the  Count's  cap  and  the  Count's 


CH.  XVI  JEHANE   IN   ENGLAND  187 

bed ;  for  so  sure  as  thou  llest  in  either  thou  art 
wife  of  a  dead  man  and  of  his  killer." ' 

The  Queen-Mother,  a  very  religious  woman, 
took  this  saying  soberly.  She  dropped  Jehane*s 
wrist,  stared  at  and  about  her,  looked  up,  looked 
down ;  then  said,  *  Tell  me  more  of  this,  my  girl.' 

'  Hey,  Madame,'  said  Jehane,  '  I  will  gladly  tell 
you  the  whole.  The  saying  of  the  leper  was  very 
dreadful  to  me,  for  I  thought,  here  is  a  man 
punished  by  God  indeed,  but  so  near  death  as  to 
be  likely  familiar  with  the  secrets  of  death.  Such 
a  one  cannot  be  a  liar,  nor  would  he  speak  idly 
who  has  so  little  time  left  to  pray  in.  Therefore 
I  urged  my  lord  Richard  by  his  good  love  for  me 
to  forgo  his  purpose  of  wedding  me  in  Poictiers. 
But  he  would  not  listen,  but  said  that,  as  he  had 
stolen  me  from  my  betrothed,  it  comported  not  with 
his  honour  to  dishonour  me.  So  he  wedded  me, 
and  fulfilled  both  terms  of  the  leper's  prophecy. 
Then  I  saw  myself  in  peril,  and  was  not  at  all 
comforted  by  the  advice  of  certain  nuns,  which  was 
that,  although  I  had  lain  in  the  Count's  bed,  I  had 
not  lain,  but  had  knelt,  in  the  Count's  cap ;  and 
that  therefore  the  terms  were  not  fulfilled.  I 
thought  that  foolishness,  and  still  think  so.  But 
this  is  my  own  thought.  I  have  never  rightly 
been  in  either  as  the  leper  intended,  for  I  do  not 
think  the  marriage  a  good  one.  If  I  am  no  wife, 
then,  God  pity  me,  I  have  done  a  great  sin ;  but 
I  am  no  Countess  of  Anjou.  So  I  give  the  prophet 
the  lie.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  am  put  away  by 
my  lord  the  King  that  he  may  make  a  good 
marriage,  I  shall  be  claimed  again  by  the  man  to 
whom  I  was  betrothed  before,  and  so  the  doom 


i88  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

be  in  danger  of  fulfilment.  For,  look  now» 
Madame,  the  leper  said,  "  Wife  of  a  dead  man  and 
his  killer  " ;  and  there  is  none  so  sure  to  kill  the 
King  as  Sir  Gilles  de  Gurdun.  Alas,  alas,  Madame, 
to  what  a  strait  am  I  come,  who  sought  no  one's 
hurt !  I  have  considered  night  and  day  what  it 
were  best  to  do  since  the  King,  at  my  prayer,  left 
me ;  and  now  my  judgment  is  this.  I  must  be 
with  the  King,  though  not  the  King's  mie  ;  because 
so  surely  as  he  sends  me  away,  so  surely  will 
Gilles  de  Gurdun  have  me.' 

She  stopped,  out  of  breath,  feeling  some  shame 
to  have  spoken  so  much.  The  Queen-Mother 
came  to  her  at  once,  with  her  hands  out.  *  By  my 
soul,  Jehane,'  she  said,  *  you  are  a  good  woman. 
Never  leave  my  son.' 

*  I  never  mean  to  leave  him,'  said  Jehane. 
*That  is  my  punishment,  and  (I  think)  his  also.' 

*  His  punishment,  my  child  t ' 

*  Why,  Madame,'  said  Jehane,  *you  think  that 
the  King  must  wed.' 

*  Yes,  yes.' 

*  And  to  wed,  he  must  put  me  away.' 

*  Yes,  yes,  child.' 

*  Therefore,  although  he  loves  me,  he  may 
never  have  his  dear  desire ;  and  although  I  love 
him,  I  may  give  him  no  comfort.  Yet  we  can 
never  leave  each  other  for  fear  of  the  leper's 
prophecy ;  but  he  must  always  long  and  I  grieve. 
That,  I  think,  is  punishment  for  a  man  and 
woman.' 

The  Queen-Mother  sobbed.  '  Terrible  punish- 
ment for  a  little  pleasant  sin!  Yet  I  doubt'  — 
she  said,  politic  through  all  —  'yet  I  doubt  my 


•CH.xvi  JEHANE   IN   ENGLAND  189 

son,  being  a  fierce  lover,  will  have  his  way  with 
thee; 

Jehane  shook  her  head.  *  No  means,'  she  said, 
drawing  in  her  breath,  *  no  means,  Madame.  I 
have  his  life  to  think  of.'  Here,  pitying  herself, 
she  turned  away  her  face.  The  Queen-Mother 
came  suddenly  and  kissed  her.  They  cried 
together,  Jehane  and  the  flinty  old  shrew  of 
Aquitaine. 

A  pact  was  made,  and  sealed  with  kisses,  be- 
tween these  two  women  who  loved  King  Richard, 
that  Jehane  should-  do  her  best  to  further  the 
Navarrese  match.  Circumstance  was  her  friend 
in  this  pious  robbery  of  herself :  Richard,  who 
stood  so  deep  engaged  in  honour  to  God  Almighty, 
could  get  no  money. 

Busy  as  he  was  with  one  shift  after  another  to 
redeem  his  credit,  busy  also  pushing  on  his  coro- 
nation, he  yet  continued  to  see  his  mistress  most 
days,  either  walking  with  her  in  the  garden  of  the 
nuns'  house  where  she  lodged,  or  sitting  by  her 
within  doors.  At  these  snatched  moments  there 
was  a  beautiful  equality  between  them ;  the  girl 
no  longer  subject  to  the  man,  the  man  more  mas- 
ter of  himself  for  being  less  master  of  her.  As 
often  as  not  he  sat  on  the  floor  at  her  feet  while 
she  worked  at  those  age-long  tapestries  which  her 
generation  loved  ;  leaning  his  head  back  to  her 
knee,  he  would  so  lie  and  search  her  face,  and 
wonder  to  himself  what  the  world  to  come  could 
have  more  fair  to  show  than  this  calm  treasurer 
of  lovely  flesh.  This  was,  at  the  time,  her  chief 
glory,  that  with  all  her  riches  —  fragrant  allure, 
soft   warmth,   the   delicacy,    nice   luxury  of   her 


190  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

every  part,  the  glow,  the  tincture,  the  throbbing 
fire  —  she  could  keep  a  strong  hand  upon  herself ; 
sway  herself  modestly ;  have  so  much  and  give  so 
little ;  be  so  apt  for  a  bridal,  and  yet  without  a 
sigh  play  the  nun  I  '  If  she,  being  devirginate 
through  me,  can  cry  herself  virgin  again  —  then 
cannot  I,  by  the  King  of  Heaven  ? '  This  was 
Richard's  day-thought,  a  very  mannish  thought ; 
for  women  do  not  consider  their  own  beauties  so 
closely,  see  no  divinity  in  themselves,  and  find  a 
man  to  be  a  glorious  fool  to  think  one  of  them 
more  desirable  than  another.  He  never  spoke 
this  thought,  but  worshipped  her  silently  for  the 
most  part;  and  she,  reading  the  homage  of  his 
upturned  face,  steeled  herself  against  the  sweet 
flattery,  held  her  peace,  and  in  her  fierce  proud 
mind  made  endless  plots  against  his. 

In  silence  their  souls  conversed  upon  a  theme 
never  mentioned  between  them.  His  restless 
quest  of  her  face  taught  him,  much,  disposed  him ; 
she,  with  all  the  good  guile  of  women  to  her  hand, 
waited,  judging  the  time.  Then  one  day  as  they 
sat  together  in  a  window  she  suddenly  slipped 
away  from  his  hand,  dropped  to  her  knees,  and 
began  to  pray. 

For  a  while  he  let  her  alone,  finding  the  act  as 
lovely  as  she.  But  presently  he  stooped  his  face 
till  it  almost  touched  her  cheek,  and  *  Tell  me 
thy  prayer,  dear  heart !  Let  me  pray  also  ! '  he 
whispered. 

'  I  pray  for  my  lord  the  King,*  she  said.  *  Let 
me  pray.'  But  as  he  insisted,  urging,  leaning  to 
her,  she  drew  her  head  back  and  lifted  to  his  view 
her  face,  blanched  with  pure  patience. 


CH.xvr  JEHANE   IN   ENGLAND  191 

*0  King  Christ,'  she  prayed,  'take  from  my 
soiled  hand  this  sacrifice ! ' 

She  prayed  to  Christ,  but  looked  at  Richard. 
He  dared  speak  for  Christ. 

*  What  sacrifice,  my  child  ? ' 

'  I  give  Thee  the  hero  who  has  lain  upon  my 
breast ;  I  give  Thee  the  marriage-bed,  the  cap  of 
the  Count.  I  give  Thee  the  kisses,  the  clinging 
together,  the  vows,  the  long  bliss  where  none 
may  speak.  I  give  Thee  the  language  of  love, 
the  strife,  the  after-calm,  the  assurance,  the  hope 
and  the  promise.  But  I  keep,  Lord,  the  memory 
of  love  as  a  hostage  of  Thine.' 

King  Richard,  breathless  now,  looked  in  her 
face.  It  was  that  of  a  mild  angel,  steadfast,  grave, 
hued  like  fire,  acquainted  with  grief.  *  O  God- 
fraught!  O  saint  in  the  battle!  O  dipped  in 
the  flame!  Jehane,  Jehane,  Jehane !  Quicken 
me!'     So  he  cried  in  anguish  of  spirit. 

'  Quicken  thee,  Richard  ? '  she  said.  *  Nay,  but 
thou  art  quick,  my  King.  The  Cross  hath  made 
thee  quick ;  thou  hast  given  more  than  I.' 

*  I  will  give  all  by  thy  direction,'  he  said,  *  for  I 
know  that  thou  wilt  save  my  honour.' 

*  Trust  me  there,'  said  Jehane,  and  let  him  kiss 
her  cheek. 

She  got  a  great  hold  upon  him  by  these  means. 
Quick  with  the  Holy  Ghost  or  not,  there  was 
no  doubting  the  quickness  of  his  mind.  Here 
Jehane's  wit  had  not  played  her  false;  he  read 
her  whole  meaning ;  she  never  let  go  the  footing 
she  had  gained,  but  in  all  her  commerce  with  him 
walked  a  saint,  a  maid  ravished  only  by  a  great 
thought.     Visibly  to   him   she   stood  symbol  of 


192  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

belief,  sacramental,  the  fire  on  the  altar,  the  fine 
shy  spirit  of  love  lurking  (like  a  rock-flower)  at 
the  Cross's  foot.  And  so  this  fire  with  which  she 
led  him,  like  the  torch  she  had  held  up  to  show 
him  his  earlier  way,  lifted  her ;  and  so  she  became 
indeed  what  she  signified. 

She  stood  very  near  the  Queen-Mother  when 
Richard  was  crowned  and  anointed  King  of  the 
English,  unearthly  pure,  with  eyes  like  stars, 
robed  in  dull  red,  crowned  herself  with  silver. 
All  those  about  her,  marking  the  respect  which 
the  old  Queen  paid  her,  scarce  dared  lift  their 
eyes  to  her  face.  The  tall  King,  stripped  to  the 
shirt,  was  anointed,  then  robed,  then  crowned; 
afterwards  sat  with  orb  and  sceptre  to  receive 
homage.  Jehane  came  in  her  turn  to  kneel 
before  him.  But  her  work  had  been  done. 
That  icy  stream  in  the  blood,  which  is  cause  and 
proof  at  once  of  the  kingly  isolation,  was  doubly 
in  Richard,  first  of  that  name.  He  beheld  her 
kneeling  at  his  knee,  knew  her  and  knew  her  not. 
She  with  her  cold  lips  kissed  his  cold  hand. 
That  day  had  love,  by  her  own  desire,  been 
frozen ;  and  that  which  was  to  awaken  it  was 
itself  numb  in  sleep. 

On  the  third  of  September  they  crowned  him 
King,  and  found  that  he  was  to  be  King  indeed. 
On  the  same  day  the  citizens  of  London  killed 
all  the  Jews  they  could  find ;  and  Richard  banished 
his  brother  John  from  his  dominions  in  England 
and  France  for  three  years  and  three  days. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FROZEN  HEART  AND  RED  HEART:  CAHORS 

I  SUPPOSE  that  the  present  relations  of  King 
Richard  and  the  Countess  of  Poictou  (as  she  chose 
to  call  herself  now)  were  as  singular  as  could  sub- 
sist between  a  strong  man  and  beautiful  woman, 
both  in  love.  I  am  not  to  extenuate  or  explain, 
but  say  once  for  all  to  the  curious  that  she  was 
never  again  to  him  (nor  had  been  since  that  day 
at  Fontevrault)  what  a  sister  might  not  have  been. 
Yet,  with  all  that,  it  was  evident  to  the  world  at 
large  that  he  was  a  lover,  and  she  mistress  of  his 
mind.  Not  only  implicitly  so,  as  witnessed  their 
long  intercourse  of  the  eyes,  their  quick  glances, 
stealthy  watching  of  each  other,  the  little  tender 
acts  (as  the  giving  or  receiving  of  a  flower),  the 
brooding  silences,  the  praying  at  the  same  time 
or  place ;  but  explicitly  he  pronounced  himself  her 
knight.  All  his  songs  were  of  her ;  he  wrote  to 
her  many  times  a  day,  and  she  answered  his  letters 
by  her  page,  and  kept  the  latest  of  them  always 
within  her  vest,  over  against  her  heart.  She 
allowed  herself  more  scope  than  he,  trusting  her- 
self further :  it  is  known  that  she  treasured  dis- 
carded things  of  his,  and  went  so  far  as  to  wear 
(she,  the  Fair-Girdled  ! )  a  studded  belt  of  his  mad^ 
to  fit  her.  She  was  never  without  this  rude 
monument  of  her  former  grace.  But  this  was 
o  193 


194  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

the  sum-total  of  their  bodily  intercourse,  apart 
from  speech.  Of  their  spiritual  ecstasies  I  have 
no  warrant  to  speak,  though  I  believe  these 
were  very  innocent.  She  would  not  dare,  nor 
he  care,  to  indulge  in  so  laxative  a  joy. 

He  conversed  with  her  freely  upon  all  affairs 
of  moment;  there  was  no  constraint  on  either 
side.  He  was  even  merry  in  her  company,  and 
astonishingly  frank.  Singular  man !  the  Navar- 
rese  marriage  was  a  common  subject  of  their 
talk;  she  spoke  of  it  with  serious  mockery  and 
he  with  mock  seriousness.  From  Richard  it 
was,  *  Countess  Jehane,  when  the  chalk-faced 
Spaniard  reigns  you  must  mend  your  manners.' 
And  she  might  say,  *  Beau  sire,  Madame  Beren- 
gere  will  never  like  your  songs  unless  you  sing 
of  her.'  All  this  served  the  girl's  private  ends. 
Gradually  and  gradually  she  led  him  to  see  that 
thing  as  fixed.  She  did  it,  as  it  were,  on  tiptoe, 
for  she  knew  what  a  shyer  he  was ;  but  luckily 
for  her  schemes,  the  Queen-Mother  trusted  her 
to  the  bottom,  said  nothing  and  allowed  noth- 
ing to  be  said. 

Meantime  the  affairs  of  the  Crusade  conspired 
with  Jehane  to  drive  Richard  once  more  to  church. 
If  he  got  little  money  in  England,  where  abbeys 
were  rich  in  corn  but  poor  in  pelf,  and  the  barons 
had  been  so  prompt  to  rob  each  other  that  they 
could  not  be  robbed  by  the  King,  —  he  got  less 
in  Gaul,  eaten  up  by  war  for  a  hundred  years. 
You  cannot  bleed  a  stuck  pig,  as  King  Richard 
found.  England  was  empty  of  money.  He  got 
men  enough ;  from  one  motive  or  another  every  ^ 
English   knight   was  willing   to   rifle   the    East^ 


CH.  xvH  CAHORS  195 

He  had  ships  enough.  But  of  what  use  ships 
and  men  if  there  was  no  food  for  them  nor 
money  to  buy  it?  He  tried  to  borrow,  he  tried 
to  beg,  he  tried  what  in  a  less  glorious  cause 
a  plain  man  would  call  stealing.  King  Richard 
came  not  of  a  squeamish  race,  and  would  have 
sold  anything  to  any  buyer,  pawned  his  crown  or 
taken  another  man's  to  get  the  worth  of  a  com- 
pany's pay  out  of  it.  Fines,  escheats,  reliefs, 
forfeitures,  wardships,  marriages  —  he  heaped  ex- 
action on  exaction,  with  mighty  little  result. 
When  his  mind  was  set  he  was  inexorable,  in- 
satiable, without  scruple.  What  he  got  only 
sharpened  his  appetite  for  more.  King  Tan- 
cred  of  Sicily  owed  the  dowry  of  Richard's  sis- 
ter Joan.  He  swore  he  would  wring  that  out 
of  him  to  the  last  doit.  He  offered  the  city  of 
London  to  the  highest  bidder,  and  lamented  the 
slaughter  of  the  Jews  when  the  tenders  were  few. 
Here  was  a  position  to  be  in !  His  Englishmen 
lay  rotting  in  Southampton  town,  his  ships  in 
Southampton  water.  His  Normans  and  Poicte- 
vins  were  over-ripe ;  he  as  dry  as  an  unpinched 
pear.  He  saw,  to  his  infinite  vexation,  his  hon- 
our again  in  pawn,  and  no  means  of  redeeming 
it.  Jehane,  with  tears  in  her  voice,  plied  the 
Navarrese  marriage  with  more  passion  than  she 
would  ever  have  allowed  herself  to  urge  her  own. 
Richard  said  he  would  think  of  it.  *  Now  I  have 
him  half-way,'  Jehane  told  the  Queen-Mother. 
He  was  driven  the  other  half  by  his  banished 
brother  John. 

Prince  John,  bundled  out  of  the  country  within 
a  week  of  the  coronation,  went  to  Paris  and  a 


196  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

pocketful  of  mischief  in  which  to  put  his  hand. 
King  Philip,  who  should  have  been  preparing  for 
the  East,  was  listening  to  counsels  much  more  to 
his  liking.  Conrad  of  Montferrat  was  there,  with 
large  white  fingers  explaining  on  the  table,  and  a 
large  white  face  set  as  lightly  as  a  mouse-trap. 
His  Italian  mind,  with  that  strange  capacity  for 
subserving  business  with  passion,  had  a  task  of 
election  here.  The  Marquess  knew  that  Richard 
would  sooner  help  the  devil  than  him  to  Jerusalem ; 
not  only  on  this  account,  but  on  every  conceivable 
account  did  he  hate  Richard.  If  he  could  embroil 
the  two  leaders  of  the  Crusade,  there  was  his  affair : 
Philip  would  need  him.  In  Paris  also  was  Saint- 
Pol,  fizzling  with  mischief,  and  behind  him,  where- 
ever  he  went,  stalked  Gilles  de  Gurdun,  murder  in 
his  heart.  The  massive  Norman  was  a  fine  foil 
to  the  Count :  they  were  the  two  poles  of  hatred. 
The  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  not  there,  but  Conrad 
knew  that  he  could  be  counted.  Richard  owed 
him  (so  he  said)  forty  pounds;  besides,  Richard 
had  called  him  a  sponge  —  and  it  was  true.  There, 
lastly,  was  Des  Barres,  that  fine  Frenchman,  ready 
to  hate  anybody  who  was  not  French,  and  most 
ready  to  hate  Richard,  who  had  broken  up  the 
Gisors  wedding  and  put,  single-handed,  all  the 
guests  to  shame.  Now,  this  was  a  company  after 
Prince  John's  own  heart.  Standing  next  to  the 
English  throne,  he  was  an  excellent  footstool;  he 
felt  the  delicate  position,  he  was  flattered  at  every 
turn.  The  Marquess  found  him  most  useful,  not 
only  because  he  was  on  better  terms  with  Philip 
than  himself  could  hope  to  be,  but  because  he 
understood  him  better.     John  knew  that   there 


CH.  XVII  CAHORS  197 

were  two  tender  spots  in  that  moody  King,  and 
he  knew  which  was  the  tenderer,  pardieu!  So 
Conrad's  gross  finger,  guided  by  John's,  probed 
the  raw  of  PhiHp's  self-esteem,  and  found  a  rank- 
ling wound,  very  proud  flesh.  Oh,  intolerable 
affront  to  the  House  of  Capet,  that  a  tall  Angevin 
robber  should  take  up  and  throw  away  a  daughter 
of  France,  and  then  whistle  you  to  a  war  in  the 
East !  Prince  John,  you  perceive,  knew  where  to 
rub  in  the  salt. 

The  storm  broke  when  King  Richard  was  again 
at  Chinon.  King  Philip  sent  messengers  —  Will- 
iam des  Barres,  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  and 
Stephen  of  Meaux  —  about  the  homage  due  to 
him  for  Normandy  and  all  the  French  fiefs.  So 
far  well ;  King  Richard  was  very  urbane,  as  bland 
as  such  an  incisive  dealer  could  be.  He  would 
do  homage  for  Normandy,  Anjou,  and  the  rest  on 
such  and  such  a  day.  *  But,'  he  added  quietly,  *  I 
attach  the  condition  that  it  be  done  at  Vezelay, 
when  I  am  there  with  my  army  for  the  East,  and 
he  with  his  army.* 

The  ambassadors  demurred,  talking  among 
themselves :  Richard  sat  on  immovable,  his  hands 
on  his  knees.  Presently  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais, 
better  soldier  than  priest,  stood  out  from  his  fellows 
and  made  this  remarkable  speech  :  — 

*  Beau  sire,  our  lord  the  august  King  takes  it 
very  ill  that  you  have  so  long  delayed  the  mar- 
riage agreed  upon  solemnly  between  your  Grace 

and  Madame  Alois  his  sister.     Therefore ' 

Milo  (who  was  present)  says  that  he  saw  his  mas- 
ter narrow  his  eyes  so  much  that  he  seemed  to 
have  none  at  all,  but  '  sockets  and  blank  balls  in 


198  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

them,  like  statues.'  The  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  appar- 
ently, did  not  observe  it.  '  Therefore,'  he  went  on, 
orotund,  '  our  lord  the  King  desires  that  the  mar- 
riage may  be  celebrated  before  he  sets  out  for 
Acre  and  the  blessed  work  in  those  parts.  Other 
matters  there  are  for  settlement,  such  as  the  title 
of  the  most  illustrious  Marquess  of  Montferrat  to 
the  holy  throne,  in  which  my  master  is  persuaded 
your  Grace  will  conform  to  his  desires.  This  and 
other  matters  a  many.' 

The  King  got  up.  '  Too  many  matters.  Bishop 
of  Beauvais,'  he  said,  'for  my  appetite,  which  is 
poor  just  now.  There  is  no  debate.  Say  this  to 
your  master,  I  pay  homage  where  it  is  due.  If 
by  his  own  act  he  prove  that  it  is  not  due,  I  will 
not  be  blamed.  As  to  the  Marquess,  I  will  never 
get  a  kingdom  for  him,  and  I  marvel  that  King 
Philip  can  make  no  better  choice  than  of  a  man 
whose  only  title  is  rape,  and  can  get  no  better  ally 
than  the  slanderer  of  his  sister.  And  upon  the 
subject  of  that  unhappy  lady,  I  tell  you  this  upon 
the  Holy  Gospels,  that  I  will  marry  King  Philip 
himself  before  I  will  marry  her ;  and  so  much  he 
very  well  knows.  I  am  upon  the  point  to  depart 
in  the  fulfilment  of  my  vows.  Let  your  master 
please  himself.  He  is  a  bad  sailor,  he  tells  me. 
Am  I  to  think  him  a  bad  soldier?  And  if  so,  in 
such  a  cause,  what  sort  of  a  Christian,  what  sort 
of  a  king,  am  I  to  think  him  ? ' 

The  Bishop,  his  diplomacy  at  an  end,  grew 
very  red.  He  had  nothing  to  say.  Des  Barres 
must  needs  put  in  his  word. 

*  Bethink  you,  fair  sire,'  he  says :  *  the  Marquess 
is  of  my  kindred.' 


CH.  XVII  CAHORS  199 

•  Oh,  I  do  think,  Des  Barres,'  the  King  an- 
swered him  ;  *  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  you.  But 
I  am  not  answerable  for  the  trespasses  of  your 
ancestry.' 

Des  Barres  glared  about  him,  as  if  he  hoped  to 
find  a  reply  among  the  joists. 

'  My  lord,'  he  began  again,  *  it  is  laid  in  charge 
upon  us  to  speak  the  mind  of  France.  Our 
master  is  greatly  put  about  in  his  sister's  affair, 
and  not  he  only,  but  his  allies  with  him.  Among 
whom,  sire,  you  must  be  pleased  to  reckon  my 
lord  John  of  Mortain.' 

He  had  done  better  to  leave  John  out;  Richard's 
eyes  burnt  him,  and  his  voice  cut.  *  Let  my  brother 
John  have  her,  who  knows  her  rights  and  wrongs. 
As  for  you,  Des  Barres,  take  back  to  your  master 
your  windy  conversation,  and  this  also,  that  I  allow 
no  man  to  dictate  marriages  to  me.'  So  said,  he 
broke  up  the  audience,  and  would  see  no  more 
of  the  ambassadors.  They,  in  two  or  three  days, 
departed  with  what  grace  they  had  in  them. 

The  immediate  effect  of  this,  you  may  perhaps 
expect,  was  to  drive  Richard  all  the  road  to 
Navarre.  He  was  profoundly  offended,  so  much 
so  that  not  Jehane  herself  dared  speak  to  him. 
As  he  always  did  when  his  heart  mastered  his  head, 
he  acted  now  alone  and  at  once.  In  the  heart  we 
choose  to  seat  rage  of  all  sorts,  the  purest  and  the 
most  base,  the  most  fervent  and  the  most  cold. 
It  so  happened  that  there  was  business  for  our 
King  in  Gascony,  congenial  business.  Guillem  de 
Chisi,  a  vassal  of  his,  had  been  robbing  pilgrims, 
so  Guillem  was  to  be  hanged.  Richard  went 
swift-foot  to  Cahors,  hanofed  Guillem  in  front  of 


200  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

his  own  gatehouse,  then  wrote  letters  to  Pam- 
pluna  inviting  King  Sancho  to  a  conference 
'  upon  many  affairs  touching  Almighty  God  and 
ourselves.'  Thus  he  put  it,  and  King  Sancho 
needed  no  accents  to  the  vowels.  The  wise  man 
set  out  with  a  great  train,  his  virgin  with  him. 

The  day  of  his  expectation,  King  Richard  heard 
mass  in  a  most  unchristian  frame  of  mind.  There 
was  no  Sursum  Cor  da  for  him  ;  but  he  knelt  like 
a  stone  image,  inert  and  cold  from  breast  to  back- 
bone ;  said  nothing,  moved  not.  How  differently 
do  men  and  women  stand  at  the  gate  of  sorrows ! 
Not  far  off  him  knelt  Countess  Jehane,  who  in 
her  hands  again  (it  may  be  said)  held  up  her 
bleeding  heart.  The  luxury  of  this  strange  sacri- 
fice made  the  girl  glow  like  a  fire  opal ;  she  was 
in  a  fierce  ecstasy,  her  lips  parted,  eyes  half -shut ; 
she  breathed  short,  she  panted.  There  is  no 
moralising  over  these  things:  love  is  a  hearty 
feeder,  and  thrives  on  a  fast-day  as  well  as  on  a 
gaudy.  By  fasting  come  visions,  tremors,  swoon- 
ings  and  such  like,  dainty  perversions  of  sense. 
But  part  of  Jehane's  exaltation,  you  must  know, 
came  of  another  spur.  She  had  a  sure  and  cer- 
tain hope ;  she  knew  what  she  knew,  though  no 
other  even  guessed  it.  With  that  to  carry  she 
could  lift  up  her  head.  No  woman  in  the  world 
need  grudge  the  usurper  of  place  while  she  may 
go  on,  carrying  her  title  below  the  heart.  More 
of  this  presently.  Two  hours  before  noon,  in  that 
clear  October  weather,  over  the  brown  hills  came 
a  company  of  knights  on  white  destriers,  with 
their  pennons  flying  and  white  cloaks  over  theii 


CH.  xvn  CAHORS  201 

mail,  the  outriders  of  Navarre.  They  were  met 
in  the  meadow  of  the  Charterhouse  and  escorted 
to  their  quarters,  which  were  on  the  right  of  the 
King's  pavilion.  That  same  pavilion  was  of 
purple  silk,  worked  over  with  gold  leopards  the 
size  of  life.  It  had  two  standards  beside  it,  the 
dragon  of  the  English,  the  leopards  of  Anjou. 
The  pavilion  of  King  Sancho  was  of  green  silk 
with  silver  emblems  —  a  heart,  a  castle,  a  stag; 
Saint  George,  Saint  Michael,  Saint  James  the 
Great,  and  Saint  Martin  with  his  split  cloak  —  a 
shining  place  before  whose  door  stood  twenty 
ladies  in  white,  their  hair  let  loose,  to  receive 
Madame  Berengere  and  minister  to  her.  Chief 
among  these  was  Countess  Jehane.  King  Richard 
was  not  in  his  ov/n  pavilion,  but  would  greet  his 
brother  king  in  the  hall  of  the  citadel. 

So  in  due  time,  after  three  soundings  on  the 
silver  trumpets  and  much  curious  ceremony  of 
bread  and  salt,  came  Don  Sancho  the  Wise  in  a 
meinie  of  his  peers,  very  noble  on  a  roan  horse ; 
and  Dame  Berengere  his  daughter  in  a  wine- 
coloured  litter,  with  her  ladies  about  her  on 
ambling  palfreys,  the  colour  of  burnt  grass.  When 
they  took  this  little  princess  out  of  her  silken  cage 
the  first  face  she  looked  for  and  the  first  she 
saw  was  that  of  Jehane  Saint-Pol,  who  received 
her  courteously. 

Jehane  always  wore  sumptuous  clothing,  being 
aware,  no  doubt,  that  her  person  justified  the  dis- 
play. For  this  time  she  had  dressed  herself  in 
silver  brocade,  let  her  bosom  go  bare,  and  brought 
the  strong  golden  plaits  round  about  in  her 
favourite   fashion.      Upon   her   head  she  had  a 


202  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i 

coronet  of  silver  flowers,  in  her  neck  a  blue  jewel. 
All  the  colour  she  had  lay  in  her  hue  of  faint  rose, 
in  her  hair  like  corn  in  the  sun,  in  her  eyes  of 
green,  in  her  deep  red  lips.  But  her  height,  free 
build,  and  liberal  curves  marked  her  out  of  a  bevy 
that  glowed  in  a  more  Southern  fashion.  She 
had  to  stoop  overmuch  to  kiss  Berengere*s  hand; 
and  this  made  the  little  Spaniard  bite  her  lip. 

Berengere  herself  was  like  a  bell,  in  a  stiff 
dress  of  crimson  sewn  with  great  pearls  in  leaf 
and  scroll-work.  From  the  waist  upwards  she 
was  the  handle  of  the  bell.  This  immoderation 
of  her  clothes,  the  fright  she  was  in  —  so  nervous 
at  first  that  she  could  hardly  stand  —  became  her 
very  ill.  She  was  quite  white  in  the  face,  with 
solemn  black  eyes,  glazed  and  expressionless ;  her 
little  hands  stuck  out  from  her  sides  like  a  pup- 
pet's. Handsome  as  no  doubt  she  was,  she 
looked  a  doll  beside  the  tall  Jehane,  who  could 
have  dandled  her  comfortably  on  her  knee.  She 
spoke  no  language  but  her  own,  and  that  not  the 
langue  d'oc,  but  a  blurred  dialect  of  it,  rougher 
even  than  Gascon.  Conversation  was  very  diffi- 
cult on  these  terms.  At  first  the  Princess  was 
shy ;  then  (when  she  grew  curious  and  forgot  her 
qualms)  Jehane  was  shy.  Berengere  fingered  the 
jewel  in  the  other's  neck,  turned  it  about,  wanted 
to  know  whence  it  had  come,  whose  gift  it  was, 
etc.,  etc.  Jehane  blushed  to  report  it  the  gift  of 
a  friend ;  whereupon  the  Princess  looked  her  up 
and  down  in  a  way  that  made  her  hot  all  over. 

But  when  it  came  to  the  time  of  meeting  King 
Richard,  Berengere 's  nervous  fears  came  crowd- 
ing back ;  the  poor  little  creature  began  to  shake, 


CH.  xvn  CAHORS  203 

clung  to  Jehane.  *  How  tall  is  the  king,  how  tall 
is  he  ?  Taller  than  you  ? '  she  asked,  looking  up 
at  the  Picard  girl. 

*  Oh,  yes,  Madame,  he  is  taller  than  I.' 
*They  say  he   is  cruel.     Did   you  —  do   you 

think  him  cruel  ? ' 
'  Madame,  no,  no.' 

*  He  is  a  poet,  they  say.  Has  he  made  many 
songs  of  me  ? ' 

Jehane  murmured  her  doubts,  exquisitely  con- 
fused. 

*  Fifty  poets,'  continued  nestling  Berengere, 
*  have  made  songs  of  me.  There  is  a  wreath  of 
songs.  They  call  me  Frozen  Heart:  do  you 
know  why  ?  They  say  I  am  too  proud  to  love  a 
poet.  But  if  the  poet  is  a  king !  I  have  a  cer- 
tain fear  just  now.     I  think  I  will '     She 

took  Jehane's  arm  —  *  No !  no ! '  She  drew  away. 
'  You  are  too  tall  —  I  will  never  take  your  arm  — 
I  am  ashamed.  I  beg  you  to  go  before  me.  Lead 
the  way.' 

So  Jehane  went  first  of  all  the  ladies  who  led 
the  Queen  to  the  King. 

King  Richard,  who  himself  loved  to  go  splen- 
didly, sat  upon  his  throne  in  the  citadel  looking 
like  a  statue  of  gold  and  ivory.  Upon  his  head 
was  a  crown  of  gold,  he  had  a  long  tunic  of  white 
velvet,  round  his  shoulders  a  great  cope  of  fig- 
ured gold  brocade,  work  of  Genoa,  and  very 
curious.  His  face  and  hands  were  paler  than 
their  wont  was,  his  eyes  frosty  blue,  like  a  winter 
sea  that  is  made  bright,  not  warm,  by  the  sun. 
He  sat  up  stiffly,  hands  on  knees ;  and  all  about 
him  stood   the  lords   and  prelates   of  the  most 


204  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  I 

sumptuous  court  in  the  West.  King  Sancho  the 
Wise  was  ready  to  stoop  all  his  wisdom  and 
burden  of  years  before  such  superb  state  as  this ; 
but  the  moment  his  procession  entered  the  hall 
Richard  went  down  from  his  dais  to  meet  it, 
kissed  him  on  the  cheek,  asked  how  he  did,  and 
set  the  careworn  man  at  his  ease.  As  for  Beren- 
gere,  he  took  from  her  of  both  cheeks,  held  her 
small  hand,  spoke  in  her  own  language  honour- 
able and  cheerful  words,  drove  a  little  colour  into 
her  face,  screwed  a  word  or  two  out  of  her. 
Afterwards  there  was  high  mass,  sung  by  the 
Archbishop  of  Auch,  and  a  great  banquet,  served 
in  the  cloister-garth  of  the  Charterhouse  under  a 
red  canopy,  because  the  hall  of  the  citadel  was 
too  small. 

At  this  feast  King  Richard  played  a  great  part 
—  cheerful,  easy  of  approach,  making  phrases  like 
swords,  giving  and  taking  the  talk  without  any 
advantage  of  his  rank.  His  jokes  had  a  bite  in 
them,  as  when  he  said  of  Bertran  that  the  best 
proof  of  the  excellence  of  his  verses  was  that  he 
had  undoubtedly  made  them  himself ;  or  of  Aver- 
rhoes,  the  Arabian  physician  and  infidel  philoso- 
pher, that  the  man  equalised  his  harms  by  poi- 
soning with  his  drugs  the  bodies  of  those  whose 
minds  had  been  tainted  by  his  heresies.  But  he 
was  the  first  to  set  the  laugh  against  himself,  and 
had  a  flash  of  Dame  Berengere's  fine  teeth  before 
he  had  been  ten  minutes  at  table. 

After  dinner  the  Kings  and  their  ministers 
went  into  debate;  and  then  it  seemed  that 
Richard  had  got  up  from  his  meat  perverse.  He 
would  only  talk  of  one  thing,  namely,  sixty  thou- 


CH.  XVII  CAHORS  205 

sand  gold  besants.  On  this  he  harped  madden- 
ingly, with  calculations  of  how  much  victual  the 
sum  would  buy,  of  the  weight  in  ounces,  of  its 
content  in  sacks  in  a  barn,  of  the  mileage  of  the 
coins  set  edge  to  edge,  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 
Don  Sancho  sat  winking  and  fidgeting  in  his 
chair,  and  talked  of  his  illustrious  daughter. 

*  Milled  edges  they  should  have,  these  besants,' 
says  King  Richard, '  whereof,  allowing  (say)  three 
hundred  and  fifty  to  a  piece,  we  have  a  surprising 
total  of  —  here  he  figured  on  the  table,  and 
King  Sancho  pursued  his  drift  until  Richard 
brought  his  hand  slamming  down  —  *of  one-and- 
twenty  million  ridges  of  gold  upon  the  treasure ! ' 
he  concluded  with  a  waggish  look.  Agreement 
was  as  hard  as  to  prolong  parallels  to  a  point. 
Yet  this  went  on  for  some  two  hours,  until,  worn 
frail  by  such  futilities,  the  Navarrese  chancellor 
plumply  asked  his  brother  of  England  if  King 
Richard  would  marry.  *  Marry ! '  cried  he,  when 
they  brought  him  down  the  question,  *  yes,  I  am 
all  for  marrying.  I  will  marry  one-and-twenty 
million  milled  edges,  our  Saviour  I '  They  reported 
to  King  Sancho  the  substance  of  these  words,  and 
asked  him  if  such  and  such  would  be  the  dowry 
of  his  lady  daughter. 

*  Ask  King  Richard  if  he  will  have  her  with 
that  in  hand  and  the  territories  demarked,'  said 
Don  Sancho. 

This  was  done.  Richard  grew  grave,  made  no 
more  jokes.  He  turned  to  Milo,  who  happened 
to  be  near  him. 

*  Where  is  the  little  lady  ? '  he  asked  him. 
Milo  looked  out  of  the  window. 


2o6  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  1 

'  My  lord,'  he  said,  *  she  is  in  the  orchard  at 
this  moment;  and  I  think  the  Countess  is  with 
her.'  Richard  blenched,  as  if  he  had  been  struck 
with  a  whip.  Collecting  himself,  he  turned  and 
looked  down  through  the  window  to  the  leafy 
orchard  below.  He  looked  long,  and  saw  (as 
Milo  had  seen)  the  two  girls,  the  tall  and  the 
little,  the  crimson  and  the  white,  standing  near 
together  in  the  shade.  Jehane  had  her  head  bent, 
for  Berengere  had  hold  of  the  jewel  in  her  bosom. 
Then  Berengere  put  her  arms  round  the  other's 
neck  and  leaned  her  head  where  the  jewel  lay. 
Jehane  stooped  her  head  lower  and  lower,  cheek 
touched  cheek.  At  this  King  Richard  turned 
about ;  despair  set  hard  was  on  his  face.  He  said 
in  a  dry  voice,  '  Tell  the  King  I  will  do  it.' 

In  the  tedious  negotiations  of  the  next  few  days 
it  was  arranged  that  the  Princess  should  await  the 
Queen-Mother  at  Bayonne,  and  sail  with  her  and 
the  fleet  to  Sicily.  There  King  Richard  would 
meet  and  marry  her.  What  had  passed  between 
her  and  Jehane  in  the  orchard,  who  knows  ?  They 
kissed  at  parting ;  but  Jehane  neither  told  Richard, 
nor  did  he  ask  her,  why  Berengere  had  lain  her 
cheek  upon  her  bosom,  or  why  herself  had  stooped 
so  low  her  head.     Women's  ways  I 

So  Red  Heart  made  her  sacrifice,  and  Frozen 
Heart  suffered  the  Sun ;  and  he  they  called  latei 
Lion- Heart  went  out  to  fight  Saladin,  and  less 
open  foes  than  he. 


BOOK    II 
THE   BOOK   OF  NAY 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  CHAPTER  CALLED  MATE-GRIFON 

Differing  from  the  Mantuan  as  much  in  sort  as 
degree,  I  sing  less  the  arms  than  the  man,  less  the 
panoply  of  some  Christian  king  offended  than  the 
heart  of  one  in  its  urgent  private  transports  ;  less 
treaties  than  the  agony  of  treating,  less  personages 
than  persons,  the  actors  rather  than  the  scene. 
Arms  pass  like  the  fashion  of  them,  to-day  or  to- 
morrow they  will  be  gone;  but  men  live,  their 
secret  springs  what  they  have  always  been.  How 
the  two  Kings,  then,  smeared  over  their  strifes  at 
Vezelay  ;  how  John  of  Mortain  was  left  biting  his 
nails,  and  Alois  weeping  at  the  foot  of  a  cross ; 
how  Christian  armies  like  dusty  snakes  dragged 
their  lengths  down  the  white  shores  of  Rhone,  and 
how  some  took  ship  at  Marseilles,  and  some  saved 
their  stomachs  at  the  cost  of  their  shoes ;  of  King 
Richard's  royal  galley  Trenchemer,  a  red  ship  with 
a  red  bridge,  and  the  dragon  at  the  mast ;  of  the 
shields  that  made  her  bulwarks  terrible ;  of  who 
went  adventurous  and  who  remained ;  of  a  fleet 
that  lay  upon  the  waters  like  a  flock  of  sea-gulls  — 
countless,  now  at  rest,  now  beating  the  sea  into 
spumy  wrath;  of  what  way  they  made,  qualms 
they  suffered,  prayers  they  said  in  their  extremity, 
vows  they  made  and  afterwards  broke,  thoughts 
they  had  and  afterwards  were  ashamed  of  —  of 

p  ao9 


2IO  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

these  and  all  such  things  I  must  be  silent  if  I  am 
to  make  a  good  end  to  my  history.  It  shall  be 
enough  for  you  that  the  red  ship  held  King 
Richard,  and  King  Richard  his  own  thoughts, 
and  that  never  far  from  him,  in  a  ship  called  Li 
Chastel  Orgoilous,  sat  Jehane  with  certain  women 
of  hers,  nursing  her  hope  and  a  new  and  fearful 
wonder  she  had.  Prayer  sits  well  in  women,  and 
age-long  watching:  one  imagines  that  Jehane  never 
left  the  poop  through  those  long  white  days,  those 
burning  nights ;  but  could  always  be  seen  or  felt, 
a  still  figure  sitting  apart,  elbow  on  knee,  chin 
in  hand  —  like  a  Norn  reading  fate  in  the  starred 
web  of  the  night.  In  the  dark  watches,  when  the 
ships  lay  drifting  under  the  stars,  or  lurched  for- 
ward as  the  surges  drove  them  on,  and  the  tink- 
ling of  the  water  against  the  side  was  all  the 
sound,  some  woman's  voice  (not  Jehane's)  would 
be  heard  singing  faint  and  far  off,  some  little 
shrill  and  winding  prayer. 

Saincte  Catherine, 
V^la  la  nuict  qui  gagne  ! 

they  would  hear,  and  hang  upon  the  cadence.  At 
such  times  Richard,  stretched  upon  his  lion-skin, 
would  raise  himself,  and  lift  up  his  face  to  the 
immense,  and  with  his  noble  voice  make  the  dark- 
ness tremble  as  he  sang  — 

Domna,  dels  angels  regina, 
Domna,  roza  ses  espina, 
Domna,  joves  enfantina, 
Domna,  estela  marina, 
De  las  autras  plus  luzens  1 


CH.  I  MATE-GRIFON  211 

But  SO  soon  as  his  voice  filled  the  night,  the 
woman's  faltered  and  died;  and  he,  holding  on 
for  a  stave  or  more,  would  stop  on  a  note  that 
had  a  wailing  fall,  and  the  lapping  of  the  waves  or 
cry  of  hidden  birds  take  up  the  rule  again.  This 
did  not  often  obtain.  Mostly  he  watched  out  the 
night,  sleeping  little,  talking  none,  but  revolving 
in  his  mind  the  great  deeds  to  do.  By  day  he 
was  master  of  the  fleet,  an  admirable  seaman 
who,  knowing  nothing  of  ships'  business  before 
he  embarked,  dared  not  confess  so  much  to  him- 
self. Richard  must  be  leader  if  he  was  to  be 
undertaker  at  all.  So  he  led  his  fleet  from  his 
first  hour  with  it,  and  brought  it  safely  into  the 
roadstead. 

They  made  Messina  prosperously,  a  white  city 
cooped  within  walls,  with  turrets  and  belfries  and 
shining  domes,  stooping  sharply  to  the  violet  sea. 
King  Philip  with  his  legions  was  to  have  come  by 
land  as  far  as  Genoa,  and  was  not  expected  yet 
awhile.  Nor  was  there  any  sign  of  the  Queen- 
Mother,  of  Berengere,  or  of  the  convoy  from 
Navarre. 

A  landing  was  made  in  the  early  morning. 
Before  the  Sicilians  were  well  awake  Richard's 
army  was  in  camp,  the  camp  entrenched,  and  a 
most  salutary  gallows  set  up  just  outside  it,  with  a 
thief  upon  it  as  a  warning  to  his  brothers  of  Sicily. 
So  far  good.  The  next  thing  was  an  embassy  to 
King  Tancred,  the  Sicilian  King,  which  demanded 
(i)  the  person  of  Queen  Joan  (Richard's  sister), 
(2)  her  dowry,  (3)  a  golden  table  twelve  foot  long, 
(4)  a  silk  tent,  and  (5)  a  hundred  galleys  fitted  out 


212  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

for  two  years.  This  despatched,  Richard  enter- 
tained  himself  with  his  hawks  and  dogs,  and  with 
short  excursions  into  Calabria.  On  one  of  these 
he  went  to  visit  the  saintly  Abbot  Joachim,  at  once 
prophet  and  philosopher  and  man  of  cool  sense; 
and  on  another  to  kill  wild  boars.  When  he  came 
back  in  October  from  the  second  of  these,  he  found 
matters  going  rather  ill. 

King  Tancred  avoided  seeing  him,  sent  no 
tables,  nor  ships,  nor  dowry.  He  did  send  Queen 
Joan,  and  Queen  Joan's  bed ;  moreover,  because 
she  had  been  Queen  of  Sicily,  he  sent  a  sack  of 
gold  coins  for  her  entertainment ;  but  he  did  not 
propose  to  go  any  further.  Richard,  seeing  what 
sort  of  courses  his  plans  were  likely  to  take,  crossed 
once  more  into  Calabria,  attacked  a  fortified  town 
which  the  Sicilians  had  settled,  turned  the  settlers 
out,  and  established  his  sister  there  with  Jehane, 
her  shipload  of  ladies,  and  a  strong  garrison. 
Then  he  returned  to  Messina. 

Certainly,  he  saw,  his  camp  there  could  be  of 
no  long  tenure.  The  Grifons,  as  they  called  the 
inhabitants,  were  about  it  like  hornets ;  not  a  day 
passed  without  the  murder  of  some  man  of  his,  or 
an  ambush  which  cost  him  a  score.  Thieving  was 
a  courtesy,  raiding  an  amenity  in  a  Grifon,  it 
appeared.  Richard,  hoping  yet  for  the  dowry 
and  a  peaceful  departing,  had  laid  a  strict  command 
that  no  harm  should  be  done  to  any  one  of  them 
unless  he  should  be  caught  bloody-handed.  '  Well 
and  good!'  writes  Milo;  'but  this  meant  to  say 
that  no  man  might  scratch  himself  for  fear  he 
should  kill  a  louse.'  Nature  could  not  endure 
such   a   direction,  so  Richard  then  (whose   own 


i 


CH.  I  MATE-GRIFON  213 

temper  was  none  of  the  longest)  let  himself  go, 
fell  upon  a  party  of  these  brigands,  put  half  to 
the  sword  and  hanged  the  other  half  in  rows  be- 
fore the  landward  gate  of  Messina.  You  will  say 
that  this  did  not  advance  his  treaty  with  King 
Tancred ;  but  in  a  sense  it  did.  When  the  Mes- 
senians  came  out  of  their  gates  to  attack  him  in 
open  field,  it  was  found  and  reported  by  Gaston 
of  Beam,  who  drove  them  in  with  loss,  that  Will- 
iam des  Barres  and  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol  had 
been  with  them,  each  heading  a  company  of 
knights.  Richard  flew  into  a  royal,  and  an 
Angevin,  rage.  He  swore  by  God's  back  that 
he  would  bring  the  walls  flat;  and  so  he  did. 
'  This  is  the  work  of  that  little  pale  devil  of 
France,  then,'  he  said.  *  A  likely  beginning,  by 
my  soul!  Now  let  me  see  if  I  can  bring  two 
kings  to  reason  at  once.' 

He  used  the  argument  of  the  long  arm.  Bring- 
ing up  his  engines  from  the  ships,  he  pounded  the 
walls  of  Messina  to  such  purpose  that  he  could 
have  walked  in  barefoot  in  two  or  three  places. 
King  Tancred  came  in  person  to  sue  for  peace; 
but  Richard  wanted  more  than  dowry  by  this 
time.  *  The  peace  you  shall  have,'  he  said, '  is  the 
peace  of  God  which  passeth  understanding,  and 
for  which,  I  take  it,  you  are  not  yet  ready,  unless 
you  bring  hither  with  you  Philip  of  France.'  This 
the  unfortunate  Tancred  really  could  not  do ;  but 
he  did  bring  proxies  of  Philip's.  Saint-Pol  came, 
Des  Barres,  and  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais  with  his 
russet,  soldier's  face.  King  Richard  sat  consider- 
ing these  worthy  men. 

*Ah,  now,  Saint-Pol,  you  are  playing  a  good 


214  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

part  In  this  Christian  adventure,  I  think ! '  he 
broke  out  after  a  time.  Saint-Pol  squared  his 
jaw.  '  If  I  had  caught  you  in  your  late  sally, 
my  friend/  Richard  went  on,  '  I  should  have 
hanged  you  on  a  tree,  knight  or  no  knight.  Why, 
fool,  do  you  think  your  shameful  brother  worth 
so  much  treachery  ?  With  him  before  your  eyes 
can  you  do  no  better  ?  I  hope  so.  Get  you  back, 
and  tell  King  Philip  this :  He  and  I  are  vowed  to 
honesty ;  but  if  he  breaks  faith  again,  I  have  that 
in  me  which  shall  break  him.  As  for  you,  Bishop 
of  Beauvais  '  —  one  saw  the  old  war-priest  blink 
— '  I  know  nothing  of  your  part  in  this  business, 
and  am  willing  to  think  charitably.  If  you,  an 
old  man,  have  any  of  the  grace  of  God  left  in  you, 
bestow  some  of  it  on  your  master.  Teach  him 
to  serve  God  as  you  serve  Him,  Beauvais.  I  will 
try  to  be  content  with  that.'  He  turned  to  Des 
Barres,  the  finest  soldier  of  the  three.  *  William,* 
he  said  more  gently,  for  he  really  liked  the  man, 
'  I  hope  to  meet  you  in  a  better  field,  and  side  by 
side.  But  if  face  to  face  again,  William,'  and  he 
lifted  his  hand,  '  beware  of  me.' 

None  of  them  had  a  word  to  say,  but  with 
troubled  faces  left  the  presence ;  which  shows  (to 
some  men's  thinking)  that  Richard's  strength  lay 
in  his  cause.  That  was  not  the  opinion  of  Des 
Barres,  nor  is  it  mine.  Meeting  them  afterwards, 
when  he  made  a  pact  of  friendship  and  alliance 
with  Tancred,  and  renewed  that  which  he  had 
had  with  Philip,  he  showed  them  a  perfectly  open 
countenance.  Nevertheless,  he  took  possession  of 
Messina,  as  he  had  said  he  would,  and  built  a  great 
tower  upon  the  wall,  which  he  called  Mate-Grifon. 


CH.  I  MATE-GRIFON  215 

Then  he  sent  for  his  sister  and  Jehane,  and  kept 
a  royal  Christmas  in  the  conquered  city. 

Trouble  was  not  over.  There  were  constant 
strifes  between  nation  and  nation,  man  and  man. 
Winter  storms  delayed  the  Queen-Mother ;  Rich- 
ard fretted  and  fumed  at  the  wasting  of  his  force, 
but  saw  not  the  worst  of  the  matter.  If  vice  was 
eating  his  army,  jealousy  was  eating  Philip's  sour 
little  heart,  and  rage  that  of  Saint-Pol.  Saint- 
Pol,  with  Gurdun  to  back  him,  had  determined 
to  kill  the  English  King ;  with  them  went,  or  was 
ready  to  go,  Des  Barres.  He  was  not  such  a 
steady  hater  by  any  means.  Some  men  seek 
temptation,  others  fall  under  it ;  Des  Barres  was 
of  this  kind. 

Of  temptation  there  was  a  plenty,  since  Richard 
was  the  most  fearless  of  men.  When  he  had  for- 
given an  injury  it  did  not  exist  for  him  any  more. 
He  was  glad  to  see  Des  Barres,  glad  to  play,  talk, 
grumble,  or  swear  with  him  —  a  most  excellent 
enemy.  One  day,  idling  home  from  a  hawking 
match,  he  got  tilting  with  the  Frenchman,  with 
reeds  for  lances.  Neither  seemed  in  earnest  until 
Richard's  horse  slipped  on  a  loose  stone  and  threw 
him.  This  was  near  the  gate.  You  should  have 
seen  the  change  in  Des  Barres.  '  Hue  !  Hue  ! 
Passavant ! '  he  yelled,  possessed  with  the  devil 
of  destruction  ;  and  came  pounding  at  Richard  as 
if  he  would  ride  over  him.  At  the  battle-cry  a 
swarm  of  fellows — Frenchmen  and  Brabanters — 
came  out  and  about  with  pikes.  Richard  was  on 
his  feet  by  that  time,  perfectly  advised  what  was 
astir.  He  was  alone,  but  he  had  a  sword.  This 
he  drew,  and  took  a  stride  or  two  towards  Des 


2i6  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

Barres,  who  had  pulled  up  short  of  him,  and  was 
panting.  The  pikemen,  who  might  have  hacked 
him  to  pieces,  paused  for  another  word.  A 
second  of  time  passed  without  it,  and  Richard 
knew  he  was  safe.     He  went  up  to  Des  Barres. 

*  Learn,  Des  Barres,'  he  said,  '  that  I  allow 
no  cries  about  my  head  save  those  for  Saint 
George.' 

*  Sire,'  said  Des  Barres,  '  I  am  no  man  of 
yours.' 

*  It  is  truly  said,'  replied  Richard,  '  but  I  will 
dub  you  one ' ;  and  he  smote  him  with  the  flat  of 
his  sword  across  the  cheek.  The  blood  leapt  after 
the  sword. 

*  Soul  of  a  virgin  ! '  cried  Des  Barres,  white  as 
cloth,  except  for  the  broad  weal  on  his  face. 

*  Your  soul  against  mine,  graceless  dog,'  said 
the  King.  '  Another  word  and  I  pull  you  down.' 
Just  then  who  should  come  riding  out  of  the  gate 
but  Gilles  de  Gurdun,  armed  cap-a-pie  ? 

*  Here,  my  lord,'  said  Des  Barres,  clearing  his 
throat,  '  comes  a  gentleman  who  has  sought  your 
Grace  with  better  cause  than  mine.' 

*  Who  is  your  gentleman  ? '  Richard  asked 
him. 

*  It  is  De  Gurdun,  sire,  a  Norman  knight  whose 
name  should  be  familiar.' 

'  I  know  him  perfectly,'  said  Richard.  He 
turned  to  one  of  the  bystanders,  saying,  '  Fetch 
that  gentleman  to  me.'  The  man  ran  nimbly  to 
meet  De  Gurdun. 

Des  Barres,  watching  narrowly,  saw  Gilles  start, 
saw  him  look,  almost  saw  the  bracing  of  his  nerves. 
What  exactly  followed  was  curious.    Gilles  moved 


CH.  I  MATE-GRIFON  217 

his  horse  forward  slowly.  King  Richard,  standing 
in  leather  doublet  and  plumed  cap,  waited  for  him, 
his  arms  folded.  Des  Barres  on  horseback,  an 
enemy ;  the  bystanders,  tattered,  savage,  high-fed 
men,  enemies  also ;  in  front  the  most  implacable 
enemy  of  all. 

When  De  Gurdun  was  within  spear-reach  he 
stopped  his  horse  and  sat  looking  at  the  King. 
Richard  returned  the  look;  it  was  an  eyeing 
match,  soon  over.  Gurdun  swung  off  the  horse, 
thre\^  the  rein  to  a  soldier,  and  tried  footing  it. 
The  f-teady  duel  of  the  eyes  continued  until  Gilles 
was  actually  within  sword's  distance.  Here  he 
stopped  once  more;  finally  gave  a  queer  little 
grunt,  and  went  down  on  one  knee.  Des  Barres 
sir^hed  as  he  eased  his  heart.  The  tension  had 
been  terrible. 

Richard  said,  '  De  Gurdun,  stand  up  and  answer 
me.  You  seek  my  life,  as  I  understand.  Is  it 
so?* 

Sir  Gilles  began  to  stammer.     *No  man   has 

loved  the  law  —  no  knight  ever  loved  lady ' 

and  so  on ;  but  Richard  cut  him  short. 

*  Answer  me,  man,'  he  said,  in  a  voice  which 
was  nearly  as  dry  as  his  father's,  *  do  you  wish  for 
my  life  ? ' 

'  King,'  said  Gilles,  his  great  emotion  lending 
him  dignity,  '  if  I  do,  is  it  a  strange  matter } 
You  have  had  my  father's  and  brother's.  You 
have  mine  in  your  hand.  You  corrupted  and 
then  stole  my  beloved.     Are  these  no  griefs  ? ' 

Richard  grew  impatient;  he  could  never  bear 
waiting. 

'  Do  you  wish  my  life  ? '  he  asked  again.     Gilles 


2i8  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

was  overwrought.  '  By  God  on  high,  but  I  do 
wish  it ! '  he  cried  out,  almost  whimpering. 

King  Richard  threw  down  his  sword.  '  Take 
it  then,  you  fool,'  he  said.     *  You  talk  too  much.' 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  party,  so  profound  that 
the  cicala  in  the  dry  hedge  shrilled  to  pierce  the 
ear.  Richard  stood  like  a  stock,  with  Des  Barres 
gaping  at  him.  Gurdun  was  all  of  a  tremble,  but 
swung  his  sword  about  in  his  sword-hand.  After 
a  while  he  took  a  deep  breath,  a  fumbling  step 
forward;  and  Des  Barres,  leaning  out  over  the 
saddle,  caught  him  by  the  surcoat. 

'  Drop  that  man,  Des  Barres,'  said  Richard, 
without  moving  his  eyes  from  the  Norman.  Des 
Barres  obeyed ;  and  as  the  silence  resumed  Gilles 
began  twitching  his  sword  again.  When  a  lizard 
rustled  in  the  grass  a  man  started  as  if  shot. 

Gilles  gave  over  first,  threw  his  sword  away 
with  a  sob. '  '  God  ha'  mercy,  I  cannot !  I  can- 
not ! '  he  fretted,  and  stood  blinking  the  tears 
from  his  eyes.  Richard  picked  up  his  weapon 
and  returned  it  to  him.  '  You  are  brave  enough, 
my  friend,'  he  said,  *  for  better  work.  Go  and  do 
better  in  Syria.' 

'  There  is  no  better  work  for  me,  sir,'  said 
Gurdun,  *  unless  you  can  justify  yourself.' 

'  I  never  justify  myself,'  said  Richard.  '  Give  me 
my  sword.'  De  Gurdun  gave  it  him.  Richard 
sheathed  it,  went  to  his  horse,  mounted,  rode  away 
at  walking  pace.  Nobody  moved  till  he  was  out 
of  sight.  Then  said  Des  Barres  with  a  high  oath, 
*  I  could  serve  that  King  if  he  would  let  me.' 

*  God  damn  him,'  said  Gilles  de  Gurdun  for  his 
part. 


CH.  X  MATE-GRIFON  2 1 9 

It  was  near  the  end  of  January  when  they 
sighted  over  sea  the  painted  sails  of  the  Queen- 
Mother's  galley.  Her  fleet  anchored  in  the  roads^ 
and  the  lady  came  ashore.  She  had  two  inter- 
views, one  with  her  son,  one  with  Jehane.  But 
she  did  not  choose  to  see  her  daughter,  Queen 
Joan,  a  very  handsome,  free  lady. 

'  Marriage ! '  cried  King  Richard,  when  this 
was  broached.  '  This  is  no  time  to  talk  of  mar- 
riage. I  have  waited  six  months,  and  now  the 
lady  must  wait  a  while,  other  six  if  needs  be.  We 
leave  this  accursed  island  in  two  days.  Between 
my  friends  and  my  enemies  I  have  fought  the 
length  and  breadth  of  it  twice  over.  Am  I  to 
spend  my  whole  host  killing  Christians  ?  A  little 
more  inactivity,  good  mother,  and  I  shall  be  in 
league  with  the  Soldan  against  Philip.  Bring  the 
lady  to  Acre,  and  I  will  marry  her  there.' 

*No,  no,  Richard,'  said  the  Queen-Mother; 
*  I  am  needed  in  England.     I  cannot  come.' 

*  Then  let  Joan  take  her,'  said  the  King. 

The  Queen-Mother,  knowing  him  very  well, 
tried  him  no  further.  She  sent  for  Jehane,  and 
held  her  close  in  talk  for  nearly  an  hour. 

'Never  leave  my  son,  Jehane,'  was  the  string 
she  harped  on.  '  Never  leave  him  for  good  or 
ill  weather.     Mated  or  unmated,  never  leave  him.' 

'  Never  in  life,  Madame,'  said  Jehane,  then  bit 
her  lip  lest  she  should  utter  what  her  mind  was 
full  of.     But  the  Queen-Mother  had  no  eyes. 

'  Pray  for  him,'  she  said ;  and  Jehane,  '  I  pray 
hourly,  Madame.'  Then  the  Queen  kissed  her  on 
both  cheeks,  and  in  such  kindness  they  parted. 


CHAPTER   II 

OF  WHAT  JEHANE  LOOKED   FOR,   AND   WHAT  BEREN- 
GfeRE  HAD 

MiLO  the  abbot  writes,  *  When  the  spring  airs, 
moving  warmly  over  the.  earth,  ruffled  the  surface 
of  the  deep,  and  that  to  a  tune  so  winning  that 
there  was  no  thought  of  the  treachery  below,  we 
took  to  the  ships  and  steered  a  course  south-east 
by  south.  This  was  in  the  quindenes  of  Easter. 
The  two  queens  (if  I  may  call  them  so,  of  whom 
one  had  been  and  one  hoped  to  be  of  that  estate), 
Joan  and  Berengere,  went  in  a  great  ship  which 
they  call  a  dromond,  a  heavy-timbered  ship  carry- 
ing a  crowd  of  sail.  With  them,  by  request  of 
Madame  Berengere,  went  Countess  Jehane,  not 
by  any  request  of  her  own.  The  King  himself 
led  her  aboard,  and  by  the  hand  into  the  state 
pavilion  on  the  poop. 

* "  Madame,"  he  said  to  his  affianced,  "  I  bring 
you  your  desired  mate.  Use  her  as  you  would 
use  me,  for  if  I  have  a  friend  upon  earth  it  is  she." 

*  "  Oh,  sire,"  says  Berengere,  "  I  am  acquainted 
with  this  lady.     She  has  nothing  to  fear  from  me." 

*  Queen  Joan  said  nothing,  being  afraid  of  her 
brother.  So  Madame  Jehane  kissed  the  hands 
of  the  pair  of  queens,  meekly  kneeling  to  each  in 
turn ;  and  so  far  as  I  know  she  did  them  faithful 
service  through  all  the  mischances  of  a  voyage 

220 


CH.  II  THE   HARVEST  IN   CYPRUS  221 

whereon  every  woman  and  every  other  man  was 
horribly  sick. 

*  Having  made  the  Pharos  in  favourable  weather, 
and  kept  Mount  Gibello  and  the  wild  Calabrian 
coast  upon  our  lee  (as  is  fitting),  we  stood  out  for 
the  straight  course  over  the  immense  waste  of 
water.  Now  was  no  more  land  to  be  seen  at 
either  hand;  but  the  sky  fitted  close  upon  the 
edges  of  the  sea  like  a  dome  of  glass  on  a  man's 
forehead.  There  was  neither  cover  from  the  sun 
nor  hiding-place  from  the  prying  concourse  of  the 
stars;  the  wind  came  searchingly,  the  waters 
stirred  beneath  it,  or,  being  driven,  heaped  them- 
selves up  into  towers  of  ruin.  The  cordage 
flacked,  the  strong  ribs  creaked ;  like  a  beast  over- 
burdened the  whole  ship  groaned,  wallowing  in  a 
sea-trough  without  breath  to  climb.  So  we  en- 
dured for  many  days,  a  straggling  host  of  men, 
ordinarily  capable,  powerless  now  beneath  that 
dumb  tyrant  the  sky.  Where  else  could  be  our 
refuge.?  We  all  looked  to  King  Richard  —  by 
day  to  his  royal  ensign,  by  night  to  the  great  wax 
candle  which  he  always  had  lighted  and  stuck  in  a 
lantern.  His  commands  were  shouted  from  ship 
to  ship  over  two  miles  or  more  of  sea;  if  any 
strayed  or  dropped  behind  we  lay-to  that  he 
might  come  up.  But  very  often,  after  a  day's  idle 
rolling,  we  knew  that  the  sea  had  claimed  some 
boatload  of  our  poor  souls,  and  went  on.  The 
galleys  kept  touch  with  the  dromonds,  enclosing 
them  (as  it  were)  within  the  cusps  of  a  new  moon, 
and  so  driving  them  forward.  To  see  this  light 
of  our  King's  moving,  now  fast,  now  slow,  now  up, 
now  down,  restlessly  over  the  field  of  the  night, 


332  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

was  to  remember  the  God  of  the  Israelites,  who 
(for  their  sakes  and  ours)  became  a  pillar  of  fire 
at  that  season,  and  transformed  himself  into  a  tall 
cloud  in  the  daytime.  Busy  as  it  was,  this  point 
of  light,  it  only  figured  the  unresting  spirit  of  the 
King,  careful  of  all  these  children  of  his,  ordering 
the  hosts  of  the  Lord. 

'  Storms  drove  us  at  length  on  to  the  island  of 
Crete,  where  Minos  once  had  his  kingly  habitation, 
and  his  wife  died  of  pleasure.  Again  they  drove 
us,  more  unfortunately,  out  of  our  course  upon  the 
inhospitable  coasts  of  Rhodes,  where  the  salt  wind 
suffers  no  trees  to  live,  nor  safe  anchorage  to  be, 
nor  shelter  from  the  ravage  of  the  sea.  In  this 
vexed  place  there  was  no  sign  of  land  but  a  long 
line  of  surf  beating  upon  a  rocky  shore,  the  mist 
of  spray  and  blown  sand,  spars  of  drowned  ships, 
innumerable  anxious  flocks  of  birds.  Here  was 
no  roadstead  for  us ;  yet  here,  but  for  the  signal 
providence  of  heaven,  we  had  likely  all  have 
perished  (as  many  did  perish),  miserably  failing  at 
once  of  purpose,  the  sacraments  of  Christ,  and 
reasonable  beds.  The  fleet  was  scattered  wide, 
no  ship  could  see  his  neighbour ;  we  called  on  the 
King,  on  the  Saviour,  on  the  Father  of  all.  But 
deep  answered  to  deep,  and  the  prayer  of  so  many 
Christians,  as  it  appeared,  skilled  little  to  change 
the  eternal  purposes  of  God. 

*  Then  one  inspired  among  us  climbed  up  to 
the  masthead,  having  in  his  teeth  a  piece  of  the 
True  Cross  set  in  a  silver  heart ;  and  called  aloud 
to  the  wild  weather,  "  Save,  Lord,  we  perish  ! " 
as  was  said  of  old  by  very  sacred  persons.  To 
which   palpable   truth   so   urgently   declared  an 


CH.  II  THE   HARVEST  IN   CYPRUS  223 

answer  was  vouchsafed,  not  indeed  according  to 
our  full  desires,  yet  (doubtless)  level  with  our 
deserts.  The  wind  veered  to  the  north ;  and  though 
it  abated  nothing  of  its  force,  preserved  us  from 
the  teeth  of  the  rocks.  Before  it  now,  under  bare 
poles,  without  need  of  oars,  we  drove  to  the 
southward;  and  while  a  little  light  still  endured 
descried  a  great  mountainous  and  naked  coast 
rising  out  of  the  heaped  waters,  which  we  knew 
to  be  the  land  of  Cyprus.  Off  the  western  face 
of  this  dark  shore,  in  a  little  shelter  at  last,  we 
lay-to  and  tossed  all  night.  Next  day  in  fairer 
weather,  hoisting  sail,  we  made  a  good  haven 
defended  by  stout  sea-walls,  a  mole  and  two 
lighthouses :  these  were  of  a  city  called  Limasol. 
Upon  my  galley,  at  least,  there  was  one  who  sang 
Lauda  Sion,  whose  tune  before  had  been  AdhcBsit 
pavimento,  when  he  rested  tired  eyes  upon  the 
clustered  spires  of  a  white  city,  smokeless  and 
asleep  in  the  early  morning  light' 

So  far  without  weariness  I  hope  Milo  may  have 
conducted  the  reader.  In  relation  to  the  sea  you 
may  take  him  for  an  expert  in  the  terrors  he 
describes.  Not  so  in  Cyprus.  War  tempts  him 
to  prolixity,  to  classical  allusion,  even  to  hexameters 
of  astonishingly  loose  joints.  Every  stroke  of  his 
hero's  sword-arm  seems  to  him  of  weight.  No 
doubt  it  was,  once ;  but  not  in  a  chronicle  of  this 
sort,  where  the  Cypriote  gests  must  take  a  lowly 
place  among  others  fair  and  foul  of  this  King- 
errant.  Let  me  put  Milo  on  the  shelf  for  a  little, 
and  abridge. 

I  tell  you  then  that  the  Emperor  of  Cyprus,  by 
name  Isaac,  was  a  thin-faced  man  with  high  cheek- 


2  24  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  u 

bones.  A  Greek  of  the  Greeks,  he  undervalued 
what  he  had  never  seen,  precisely  for  that  reason. 
When  heralds  went  up  to  Nikosia  to  announce  the 
coming-in  of  King  Richard,  Isaac  mumbled  his 
lips.  '  Prutt ! '  he  said,  '  I  am  the  Emperor. 
What  have  I  to  do  w^ith  your  kings  } '  Richard 
showed  him  that  with  one  king  he  had  plenty  to 
do,  by  assaulting  Limasol  and  putting  armies  to 
flight  in  the  plains  about  Nikosia.  Shall  I  sing  the 
battle  of  the  fifty  against  five  thousand ;  tell  how 
King  Richard  with  precisely  half  a  hundred 
knights  came  cantering  against  the  sun  and  a 
host,  ^s  gay  and  debonair  as  to  a  driving  of  stags  ? 
They  say  that  he  himself  led  the  charge,  covered 
in  a  wonderful  silken  surcoat,  colour  of  a  bull- 
finch's breast,  and  wrought  upon  in  black  and 
white  heraldry.  They  say  that  at  the  sight  of  the 
pensils  a-flutter,  at  the  sound  of  the  hunting- 
horns,  the  Grifons  let  fly  a  shaft  a-piece;  then 
threw  down  their  bows  and  scattered.  But  the 
knights  caught  them.  Isaac  was  on  a  hill  to 
watch  the  battle.  '  Who  is  that  marvellous  tall 
knight  who  seems  to  be  swimming  among  my 
horse  ?  *  *  Splendour,  it  is  Rikardos,  King  of  the 
West,'  they  told  him,  *  reputed  a  fierce  swimmer.' 
'  He  drowns,  he  drowns  ! '  cried  the  Emperor,  as 
the  red  plumes  were  whelmed  in  black.  '  Nay, 
but  he  dives  rather.  Majesty.'  He  heard  the 
death-shouts,  he  saw  white  faces  turned  his  way ; 
then  the  mass  was  cleft  asunder,  blown  off  and 
dispersed  like  the  sparks  from  a  smithy.  The 
thing  was  of  little  moment  in  a  time  of  much ; 
there  was  no  fighting  left  in  the  Cypriotes  after 
that   sunny  morning's  work.      Nikosia  fell,  and 


CH.n  THE   HARVEST  IN   CYPRUS  225 

the  Emperor  Isaac,  in  silver  chains,  heard  from 
his  prison-house  the  shouts  which  welcomed  the 
Emperor  Richard.  These  things  were  accom- 
plished by  the  first  week  in  May.  Then  came 
Guy  of  Lusignan  with  bad  news  of  Acre  and 
worse  of  himself.  Philip  was  before  the  town, 
Montferrat  with  him.  Montferrat  had  the  Arch- 
duke's of  Austria  as  well  as  French  support ;  with 
these  worthies,  and  the  ravished  wife  of  old  King 
Baldwin  for  title-deed,  he  claimed  the  throne  of 
Jerusalem;  and  King  Guy  of  Lusignan  (but  for 
the  name  of  the  thing)  was  of  no  account  at  all. 
Guy  said  that  the  siege  of  Acre  was  a  foppery. 
King  Philip  was  ill,  or  thought  he  was;  Mont- 
ferrat was  treating  with  Saladin;  the  French 
knights  openly  visited  the  Saracen  women;  and 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy  got  drunk.  '  What  else 
could  he  get,  poor  fool  ? '  asked  Richard ;  then 
said, '  But  I  promise  you  this :  Montferrat  shall 
never  be  King  of  Jerusalem  while  I  hve  —  not 
because  I  love  you,  my  friend,  but  because  I  love 
the  law.  I  shall  come  as  soon  as  I  *  can  to  Acre, 
when  I  have  done  here  the  things  which  must  be 
done.'     He  meant  his  marriage. 

Little  Madame  Berengere  was  lodged,  as  be- 
came her,  in  the   Emperor's  palace  at  Limasol, 
having  with  her  Queen  Joan  of  Sicily,  and  among 
her  women  the  young  fair  lady  Jehane,  none  too 
fair,  poor  girl,  by  this  time.     Berengere  herself, 
who  was  not  very  intelligent,  remarked  her,  and 
gave  her  the  cold  shoulder.     As  day  swallowed 
,  up  day,  and  Richard,  at  his  affairs,  gave  her  no 
;  thought,  or  at  least  no  sign,  Jehane's  condition 
I  became   an   abominable   eyesore  to  the  Queen- 


226  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

designate ;  so  Queen  Joan  plucked  up  her  cour- 
age to  the  point,  and  seeking  out  her  brother,  let 
him  know  that  she  had  tidings  for  his  private  ear. 
'  1  do  not  admit  that  I  have  such  an  ear,'  said 
Richard.  'It  is  no  part  of  a  king's  baggage. 
Yet  by  all  means  name  your  tidings,  my  sister.' 

*  Dear  sire,'  said  Joan,  '  it  appears  that  you 
have  sown  a  seed,  and  must  look  before  long  for 
the  harvest.'     The  King  laughed. 

*  God  knows,  I  have  sown  enough  seeds.  But 
mostly  they  come  up  tares,  I  am  apt  to  find.  My 
harvesting  is  of  little  worth.     What  now,  sister.? ' 

'  Beau  sire,'  says  the  Queen,  '  I  know  not  how 
you  will  take  it.  Your  bonamy,  the  Picardy  lady, 
is  with  child,  and  not  so  far  from  her  time  neither. 
My  sister  Berengere  is  greatly  offended.' 

King  Richard  began  to  tremble ;  but  whether 
from  the  ague  which  was  never  long  out  of  him, 
or  from  joy,  or  from  trouble,  who  knows  ? 

'  Oh,  sister,'  he  said,  *  Oh,  sister,  are  you  very 
sure  of  this  ? ' 

'  I  was  sure  of  it,'  replied  the  lady,  *  the  moment 
I  saw  her  in  the  autumn  at  Messina.  But  now 
your  question  is  not  worth  the  asking.' 

The  King  abruptly  left  his  sister  and  went  over 
to  the  Queen's  side  of  the  palace.  Berengere  was 
sitting  upon  a  balcony,  all  her  ladies  with  her ;  but 
Jehane  a  little  apart.  When  the  King  was  an- 
nounced all  rose  to  their  feet.  He  looked  neither 
right  nor  left  of  him,  but  fixedly  at  Jehane,  with  a 
high  bright  flush  upon  his  sharp  face  and  fever 
sparks  in  his  eyes.  To  these  signals  Jehane, 
because  of  her  great  exaltation,  flew  the  answering 
flags.     Richard  touched   Berengere's  hand  with 


CH.  II  THE   HARVEST   IN   CYPRUS  227 

the  hair  on  his  lip :  to  Jehane  he  said,  '  Come, 
ma  mye,'  and  led  her  out  of  the  balcony. 

This  was  not  as  it  should  have  been ;  but 
Richard,  used  to  his  way,  took  it,  and  Richard 
moved  could  move  bigger  mountains  than  those 
of  ceremony.  He  lunged  forward  along  the 
corridors,  Jehane  following  as  she  might,  led  by 
the  hand,  but  not  against  her  will.  No  doubt  she 
was  with  child,  no  doubt  she  was  glorious  on  that 
account.     She  was  a  very  proud  girl. 

Alone,  those  two  who  had  loved  so  fondly 
gazed  each  at  the  work  wrought  upon  the  other 
without  a  word  said,  the  King  all  luminous  with 
love,  and  she  all  dewy.  If  soul  spoke  to  soul  ever 
in  this  world,  said  Richard's  soul,  '  O  Vase,  that 
bearest  the  pledge  of  my  love ! '  and  hers,  '  O 
Strong  Wine,  that  brimmest  in  my  cup ! ' 

He  came  forward  and  embraced  her  with  his 
arm.  He  felt  her  heart  beat,  he  guessed  her  pride ; 
he  felt  her  thrill,  he  knew  his  own  defeat.  He 
felt  her  so  strong  and  salient  under  his  hand  — 
so  strong,  so  full-budded,  so  hopeful  of  fruit  — 
that  despair  of  her  loss  seized  him  again,  terrible 
rage.  He  sickened,  while  in  her  the  warm  blood 
leaped.  He  wanted  everything ;  she,  nothing  in 
the  world.  He,  the  king  of  men,  was  the  bond ; 
she,  the  cast-off  minion,  she,  this  Jehane  Saint-Pol, 
was  the  free.  So  God,  making  war  upon  the  great, 
rights  the  balances  of  this  world. 

But  he  was  extraordinarily  gentle  with  her ;  he 
gripped  himself  and  throttled  the  animal  close. 
Gaining  grace  as  he  went,  his  heart  throve  upon 
its  own  blood.  Balm  was  shed  on  his  burning 
face,  he  sucked  peace  as  it  fell.      Then  he,  too, 


228  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  u 

discerned  the  God  near  by;  to  him,  too,  came 
with  beating  wings  the  pure  young  Love,  that 
best  of  all,  which  hath  no  needs  save  them  of 
spending. 

His  voice  was  hushed  to  a  boy's  murmur. 

*  Jehane,  ma  mye,  is  it  true  ? ' 

*  I  am  the  mother  of  a  son,'  she  said. 

*  Give  God  the  glory ! ' 

But  she  said,  *  He  hath  given  it  to  me/  Her 
face  was  turned  to  where  God  might  be :  Richard, 
looking  down,  kissed  her  on  the  mouth.  Trem- 
blingly they  kissed  and  long,  not  as  young  lovers, 
but  as  spouse  and  spouse,  drinking  their  common 
joy. 

After  a  while  his  present  troubles  came  throngs  .. 
ing  back,  and  he  said  bitterly :  '  Ah,  child,  thoif  I 
art  widowed  of  me  while  yet  we  both  live.    Yet  it 
was  in  thy  power  to  be  mother  of  a  king.' 

Said  she,  leaning  her  head  on  his  breast,  *  Every 
woman  that  beareth  a  child  is  mother  of  a  king ; 
but  not  every  woman's  child  hath  a  king  to  his 
father.  Thus  it  is  with  me,  Richard,  who  am 
doubly  blessed.' 

'  Ah,  God ! '  he  cried,  poignantly  concerned, 
*  Ah  God,  Jehane,  see  what  trammels  I  have 
enmeshed  us  in,  thee  in  one  net  and  me  in  another ! 
So  that  neither  can  I  help  thee,  being  roped  down 
to  this  work,  nor  thou  thyself,  trapped  by  my  fault. 
How  shall  I  do  ?  Lo,  my  sin,  my  sin !  I  cried 
Yea;  and  now  cometh  God,  and.  Nay,  King 
Richard,  He  saith.  The  sin  is  mine,  and  the 
burden  of  the  sin  is  thine.  Is  this  a  horrible 
thing .? ' 

Jehane  smiled  up  in  his  face.    *  And  dost  thou 


CH.  n  THE   HARVEST  IN   CYPRUS  229 

think  it,  Richard,  a  burden  so  grievous,'  she  said, 

*  to  be  mother  of  thy  son  ?  Dost  thou  think  that 
the  world  can  be  harsh  to  me  after  that ;  or  that 
in  the  life  to  come  there  will  be  no  remembrance 
to  make  the  long  days  sweet  ? '  She  looked  very 
proudly  upon  him,  smiling  all  the  time ;  she  put 
her  hands  up  and  crowned  his  head  with  them. 

*  Oh,  my  dear  life,  my  pride  and  my  master,'  said 
Jehane,  *  let  all  come  to  me  that  must  come  now ; 
I  am  rich  above  all  my  desires,  and  my  lowliness 
has  been  of  no  account  with  God.  Now  let  me 
go,  blessing  His  name/ 

He  would  not  let  her  go,  but  still  looked  ear- 
nestly down  at  her,  struggling  with  himself  against 
himself. 

*  I  must  be  married,  Jehane,'  says  he  presently. 
And  she,  *  In  a  good  hour,  my  lord.' 

*  It  is  an  accursed  hour,'  he  said ;  '  nothing  but 
ill  can  come  of  it.' 

*  Lord,'  said  she,  *  thou  art  vowed  to  this 
work.' 

*  I  know  it  very  well,'  he  replied ;  *  but  a  man 
does  as  he  can.' 

*  You,  my  King  Richard,  do  as  you  will,'  said 
Jehane.     So  he  kissed  her  and  let  her  go. 

Among  the  multitudinous  affairs  now  heaped 
upon  him — business  of  his  new  empire  and  his 
old,  business  of  Guy's,  business  of  the  war,  busi- 
ness of  marriage  —  he  set  first  and  foremost  this 
business  of  Jehane's.  He  removed  her  from  the 
Queen's  house,  gave  her  house  and  household  of 
her  own.  It  was  in  Limasol,  a  pleasant  place  over- 
looking the  sea  and  the  ships,  a  square  white  house 
set  deep  in  myrtle  woods  and  oleanders.     Once 


230  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

more  the  *  Countess  of  Poictou  '  had  her  seneschal, 
chaplain,  ladies  of  honour.  That  done,  he  fixed 
Saint  Pancras'  day  for  his  marriage,  had  the  ships 
got  out,  furnished,  and  appointed  for  sea.  The 
night  before  Saint  Pancras  he  sent  for  Abbot  Milo 
in  a  hurry.  Milo  found  him  walking  about  his 
room,  taking  long,  carefully  accurate  strides  from 
flagstone  to  flagstone. 

He  continued  this  feverish  devotion  for  some 
minutes  after  his  confessor's  coming-in;  and 
seeing  him  deep  in  thought,  the  good  man  stood 
patient  by  the  doorway.  So  presently  Richard 
seemed  aware  of  him,  stopped  in  mid  walk,  and 
looking  at  him,  said  — 

'  Milo,  continence  is,  I  suppose,  of  all  virtues 
the  most  excellent } '  Milo  prepared  to  expati- 
ate. 

*  Undoubtedly,  sire,  it  is  so,  because  of  all 
virtues  the  least  comfortable.     Saint  Chrysostom, 

indeed,    goes   so    far    as    to  declare ';   but 

Richard  broke  in. 

*And  therefore,  Milo,  it  is  urged  upon  the 
clergy  by  the  ordinances  of  many  honourable 
popes  and  patriarchs  ? ' 

*  Distinguo,  sire,'  said  Milo,  *  distinguo.  There 
are  other  reasons.  It  is  written.  So  run  that  ye 
may  obtain.  Now,  no  man  can  run  after  the 
prize  we  seek  if  he  carrieth  a  woman  on  his  back. 
And  that  for  two  reasons:  first,  because  she 
is  so  much  dead  weight ;  and  second,  because  a 
woman  is  so  made  that,  if  her  bearer  did  achieve 
the  reward,  she  would  immediately  claim  a  share 
in  it.  But  that  is  no  part  of  the  divine  plan,  as  I 
understand  it.' 


CH.  n  THE   HARVEST  IN   CYPRUS  231 

*  Let  us  talk  of  the  laity,  Milo/  said  the  King, 
abstractedly.  *  If  one  of  them  set  up  for  a  runner, 
should  he  not  be  a  virgin  ? ' 

'  Lord/  replied  the  abbot,  *  if  he  can.  But  that 
is  not  so  convenient* 

*  How  not  so  ? '  asked  King  Richard. 

*  My  lord,'  Milo  said,  '  if  all  the  laity  were 
virgins  there  would  soon  be  no  laity  at  all,  and 
then  there  would  be  no  priests  —  a  state  of  affairs 
not  provided  for  by  the  Holy  Church.  More- 
over, the  laity  have  a  kingdom  in  this  world ;  but 
the  religious  not  of  this  world.  Now,  this  world 
is  too  excellent  a  good  place  not  to  be  peopled ; 
and  God  hath  appointed  a  pleasant  way.' 

Said  the  King,  *  A  way  of  sorrow  and  shame.' 

*  Not  so,  sire,'  said  Milo,  '  but  a  way  of  honour. 
And  if  I  rejoice  that  the  same  way  is  before  your 
Grace,  I  am  not  alone  in  happiness.' 

*  A  king's  business,'  said  Richard,  *  is  to  govern 
himself  wisely  (having  paid  his  debts),  and  his 
people  wisely.  It  may  be  that  he  should  get  heirs 
if  none  are.  But  if  heirs  there  be,  then  what  is 
his  business  with  more  ?  Why  should  his  son  be 
better  king  than  his  brother,  for  example  ? ' 

*  Lord,'  Milo  admonished,  '  a  king  who  is  sure 
of  himself  will  make  sure  of  his  issue.  That  too 
is  a  king's  business.' 

Said  Richard  moodily,  *Who  is  sure  of  him- 
self ? '  He  turned  away  his  head,  bidding  Milo  a 
good  night.  As  the  abbot  made  his  reverence  he 
added,  *  I  am  to  be  married  to-morrow.' 

*  I  devoutly  hope  so,'  said  the  good  man.  *  And 
then  your  Grace  will  have  a  surer  hope  than  in 
your  Grace's  brother.* 


232  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  u 

*  Get  you  to  bed,  Milo/  Richard  said,  *  and  let 
me  be  alone.' 

Married  he  was,  so  far  as  the  Church  could  pro- 
vide, in  the  Basilica  of  Limasol,  with  the  Bishop 
of  Salisbury  to  celebrate.  Vassals  of  his,  and 
allies,  great  lords  of  three  realms,  bishops  and 
noble  knights  filled  the  church  and  saw  the  rites 
done.  High  above  them  afterwards,  before  the 
altar,  he  sat  crowned  and  vested  in  purple,  hold- 
ing in  his  right  hand  the  sceptre  of  his  power, 
and  the  orb  of  his  dominion  in  his  left  hand. 
Then  Berengere,  daughter  of  Navarre,  kneeling 
before  him,  was  by  him  thrice  crowned :  Queen 
of  England,  Empress  of  Cyprus,  Duchess  of  Nor- 
mandy. But  she  never  got  upon  her  little  dark 
head  the  red  cap  of  Anjou  which  had  covered  up 
Jehane's  gold  hair.  Jehane  was  neither  at  the 
church  nor  at  the  great  feast  that  followed.  She, 
on  Richard's  bidding,  was  in  her  ship,  Li  Chastel 
OrgoilouSy  whose  head  swayed  to  the  running 
tide. 

But  a  great  feast  was  held,  at  which  Queen 
Berengere  sat  by  the  King  in  a  gold  chair,  and 
was  served  on  knees  by  the  chief  officers  of  the 
household,  the  kingdom,  and  the  duchy.  Also, 
after  dinner,  full  and  free  homage  was  done  her — 
a  desperate  long  ceremony.  The  little  lady  had 
great  dignity ;  and  if  they  found  her  stiff,  it  is  to 
be  hoped  they  remembered  her  very  young.  But 
although  everybody  saw  that  Richard  was  in  the 
clutches  of  his  ague  throughout  these  perform- 
ances, so  much  so  that  when  he  was  not  talking 
his  teeth  chattered  in  his  head,  and  his  hand  spilt 
the  wine  on  its  way  to  the  mouth  —  none  were 


CH.ii  THE   HARVEST  IN   CYPRUS  233 

prepared  for  what  was  to  come,  unless  such  inti- 
mates as  Gaston  of  Beam  or  Mercadet,  his  Gas- 
con captain,  may  have  known  it.  At  the  close  of 
the  homage-giving  he  rose  up  in  his  throne,  threw 
back  his  purple  robe,  and  showed  to  all  beholders 
the  wrinkled  mail  beneath  it.  He  was,  in  fact,  in 
chain-armour  from  shoulders  to  feet.  For  a  mo- 
ment all  looked  open-mouthed.  He  drew  his 
sword  with  a  great  gesture,  and  held  it  on  high. 

*  Peers  and  noble  vassals,'  he  called  out  in 
measured  tones  (in  which,  nevertheless,  deep 
down  the  shaking  fit  could  be  discerned,  vibrat- 
ing the  music),  *the  work  calls  us;  Acre  is  in 
peril.  Kings,  who  are  servants  of  the  King  of 
Kings,  put  by  their  private  concerns;  queens, 
who  bow  to  one  throne  only,  to  that  bow  with 
haste.  Now,  you  of  the  Cross,  who  follows  me 
to  win  the  Cross?  The  ships  are  ready,  my 
lords.     Shall  we  go  ? ' 

The  great  hall  was  struck  dumb.  Queen 
Berengere,  only  half  understanding,  looked  scared 
about  her.  One  could  not  but  pity  the  extin- 
guishment of  her  poor  little  great  affairs.  Queen 
Joan  grew  very  red.  She  had  the  spirit  of  her 
family,  was  angry,  fiercely  whispered  in  her 
brother's  ear.  He  barely  heard  her;  he  shook 
her  words  from  his  ears,  stamped  on  the  pavement. 

*  Never,  never  1  I  am  for  the  Cross !  Lord 
Jesus,  behold  thy  knight  I  The  work  is  ready, 
shall  I  not  do  it  ?  I  call  Yea  I  for  this  turn. 
Ha,  Anjou!     To  the  ships,  to  the  ships!' 

His  sword  flickered  in  the  air ;  there  followed 
it,  leaping  after  the  beam,  a  great  swish  of  steel* 
soon  a  forest  of  swords. 


234  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

*  Ha,  Richard !  Ha,  Anjou !  Ha,  Saint  George  !* 
So  they  made  the  rafters  volley ;  and  so  headlong 
after  King  Richard  tumbled  out  into  the  dusk 
and  sought  the  ships.  The  new  Queen  was  cry- 
ing miserably  on  the  dais,  Queen  Joan  tapping 
her  foot  beside  her.  Late  at  night  they  also  put 
out  to  sea.  On  his  knees,  facing  the  shrouded 
East,  King  Richard  spent  his  wedding  night,  with 
his  bare  sword  for  his  partner. 


CHAPTER   III 

WHO  FOUGHT  AT  ACRE 

After  they  had  lost  the  harbour  of  Limasol,  from 
that  hasty  dark  hour  of  setting  out,  the  fleet  sailed 
(it  seemed)  under  new  stars  and  encountered  a 
new  strange  air.  All  night  they  toiled  at  the 
oars ;  and  in  the  morning,  very  early,  every  eye  was 
turned  to  the  fired  East,  where,  in  the  sea-haze, 
lay  the  sacred  places  clothed  (like  the  Sacrament) 
in  that  gauzy  veil.  First  of  them  Trenchemer 
steered,  the  King's  red  galley,  in  whose  prow,  stiff 
and  hieratic  as  a  figurehead,  was  the  King  himself, 
watching  for  a  sign.  The  great  ships  rolled  and 
plunged,  the  tide  came  racing  by  them,  blue-green 
water  lipped  with  foam,  carrying  upon  it  unknown 
weeds,  golden  fruit  floating,  wreckage  unfamil- 
iar, a  dead  fish  scarlet-rayed,  a  basket  strangely 
wrought  —  drifting  heralds  of  a  country  of  dreams. 
About  noon,  when  mass  had  been  said  upon  his 
galley.  King  Richard  was  seen  to  throw  up  his 
arms  and  stretch  them  wide ;  the  shout  followed 
the  sign  —  *  Terra  Sancta  !  Terra  Sancta ! '  they 
heard  him  cry.  Voice  after  voice,  tongue  after 
tongue,  took  up  the  word  and  lifted  it  from  ship 
to  ship.  All  fell  upon  their  knees,  save  the  rowers. 
A  dim  coast,  veiled  in  violet,  lifted  before  their 
eyes  —  mountain  ranges,  great  hollows,  clouded 
places,  so  far  and  silent,  so  mysteriously  wrapt, 
full  of  awe,  no   one  could  speak,   no   one  had 

235 


236  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

thought  to  speak,  but  must  look  and  search  and 
wonder.  A  quick  flight  of  shore  birds,  flashing 
creatures  that  twittered  as  they  swept  by,  broke 
the  spell.  This  then  was  a  land  where  living 
things  abode ;  it  was  not  only  of  the  sacred  dead. 
They  drew  nearer,  their  hearts  comforted. 

They  saw  Margat,  a  lonely  tower  high  on  a 
split  rock ;  they  saw  Tortosa,  with  a  haven  in  the 
sea ;  Tripolis,  a  very  white  city ;  Neplyn.  Botron 
they  saw,  with  a  great  terraced  castle ;  afterwards 
Beyrout,  cedars  about  its  skirt.  Mountains  rose 
up  nearer  to  the  sound  of  the  surf;  they  saw 
Lebanon  capped  with  cloud-wreaths,  then  snowy 
Hermon  gleaming  in  the  sun.  They  saw  Mount 
Tabor  with  a  grey  head,  and  two  mountains  like 
spires  which  stood  separate  and  apart.  Tyre  they 
passed,  and  Sidon,  rich  cities  set  in  the  sand,  then 
Scandalion ;  at  length  after  a  long  night  of  watch- 
ing a  soft  hill  showed,  covered  with  verdure  and 
glossy  dark  woods,  Carmel,  shaped  like  a  woman's 
breast.  Making  this  hallowed  mount,  in  the 
plain  beyond  they  saw  Acre,  many-towered ;  and 
all  about  it  the  tents  of  the  Christian  hosts,  and 
before  it  in  the  blue  waters  of  the  bay  ships  rid- 
ing at  anchor,  more  numerous  than  the  sea-birds 
that  haunt  Monte  Gibello  or  swim  sentinel  about 
its  base.  Trumpets  from  the  shore  answered  to 
their  trumpets  ;  they  heard  a  wild  tattoo  of  drums 
within  the  walls.  On  even  keels  in  the  motionless 
tide  the  ships  took  up  their  moorings ;  and  King 
Richard,  throwing  the  end  of  his  cloak  over  his 
shoulder,  jumped  off  the  gunwale  of  Trenchemer. 
and  waded  breast-deep  to  shore.  He  was  the  first 
of  his  realm  to  touch  this  storied  Syrian  earth. 


CH.  in  THEY  FIGHT  AT  ACRE  237 

Now  for  affairs.  The  meeting  of  the  Kings 
was  cordial,  or  seemed  so.  King  Phih'p  came 
out  of  his  pavilion  to  meet  his  royal  brother,  and 
Richard,  kissing  him,  asked  him  how  he  did. 
*  Very  vilely,  Richard,'  said  the  young  man.  '  I 
think  there  is  a  sword  in  my  head.  The  glaring 
sun  flattens  me  by  day,  and  all  night  I  shiver.' 

*  Fever,  my  poor  coz,'  said  Richard,  with  a  kind 
hand  upon  his  shoulder.  Philip  burst  out  with 
his  symptoms,  wailing  like  a  child :  *  The  devil 
bites  me.  I  vomit  black.  My  skin  is  as  dry 
as  a  snake's.  Yesterday  they  bled  me  three 
ounces.'  Richard  walked  back  with  him  among 
the  tents,  conversing  cheerfully,  and  for  a  few  days 
held  his  old  ascendancy  over  Philip ;  but  only  for  a 
few.  Other  of  the  leaders  he  saw :  some  gave  him 
no  welcome.  The  Marquess  of  Montferrat  kept 
his  quarters,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  in  bed. 
The  Archduke  of  Austria,  Luitpold,  a  hairy  man 
with  light  red  eyelashes,  professed  great  civility ; 
but  Richard  had  a  bad  way  with  strangers.  Not 
being  receptive,  he  took  no  pains  to  pretend  that 
he  was.  The  Archduke  made  long  speeches, 
Richard  short  replies ;  the  Archduke  made  longer 
speeches,  Richard  no  replies.  Then  the  Arch- 
duke grew  very  red,  and  Richard  nearly  yawned. 
This  was  at  the  English  King's  formal  reception 
by  the  leaders  of  the  Crusade.  With  the  Grand 
Master  of  the  Temple  he  got  on  better,  liking  the 
looks  of  the  man.  He  did  not  observe  Saint-Pol 
on  King  Philip's  left  hand;  but  there  he  was, 
flushed,  excited,  and  tensely  observant  of  his 
enemy.  That  same  night,  when  they  held  a 
council  of  war,  there  was  seen  a  smoulder  of  that 


238  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  11 

fire  which  you  might  have  decently  supposed  put 
out.  King  Philip  came  down  in  a  mighty  hurry, 
and  sat  himself  in  the  throne;  Montferrat,  Bur- 
gundy, and  others  of  that  faction  serried  round 
about  him.  The  English  and  Angevin  chiefs 
were  furious,  and  the  Archduke  halted  between 
two  opinions.  By  the  time  (lateish)  when  King 
Richard  was  announced  Gaston  of  Beam  and 
young  Saint- Pol  had  their  sv/ords  half  out.  But 
Richard  came  and  stood  in  the  doorway,  a  mag- 
nificent leisurely  figure.  All  his  party  rose  up. 
Richard  waited,  watching.  The  Archduke  (who 
really  had  not  seen  him  before)  rose  with 
apologies ;  then  the  French  followed  suit,  singly, 
one  here  and  one  there.  There  only  remained 
seated  King  Philip  and  the  Marquess  of  Mont- 
ferrat. Still  Richard  waited  by  the  door;  pres- 
ently, in  a  quiet  voice,  he  said  to  the  usher,  *  Take 
your  wand,  usher,  to  that  paralytic  over  there. 
Tell  him  that  he  shall  use  it,  or  I  will.'  The 
message  was  delivered :  at  an  angry  nod  from 
King  Philip  the  Marquess  got  darkly  up,  and 
Richard  came  into  the  hall  with  King  Guy  of 
Jerusalem.  These  two  sat  down  one  on  each 
side  of  France ;  and  so  the  council  began. 

It  was  hopeless  from  the  outset  —  2,  posse  of 
hornets  droned  into  fury  by  the  Archduke.  While 
he  talked  the  rest  maddened,  longing  for  each 
other's  blood,  failing  that  of  Luitpold.  Richard, 
who  as  yet  had  no  plans  of  his  own,  took  no 
interest  whatever  in  plans.  He  acted  throughout 
as  if  the  Marquess  was  not  there,  and  as  if  he 
wished  with  all  his  heart  that  the  Archduke  was 
not  there.     On  his  part,  the  Marquess  would  have 


CH.  m  THEY  FIGHT  AT  ACRE  239 

given  nearly  all  he  owned  to  have  behaved  so  to 
Guy  of  Lusignan  set  over  him ;  but  the  Marquess 
had  not  that  art  of  lazy  scorn  which  belongs  to 
the  royal  among  beasts:  he  glowered,  he  was 
sulky.  Meantime  the  Archduke  buzzed  his  age- 
long periods,  and  Richard  (clasping  his  knee) 
looked  at  the  ceiling.  At  last  he  sighed  pro- 
foundly, and  '  God  of  heaven  and  earth  ! '  escaped 
him.  King  Philip  burst  into  a  guffaw  —  his  first 
for  many  a  day  —  and  broke  up  the  assembly. 
Richard  had  himself  rowed  out  to  Jehane  in  her 
ship. 

He  had  no  business  there,  though  his  business 
was  innocent  enough ;  but  she  could  not  tell  him 
so  now.  The  girl  was  dejected,  ill,  and  very 
nervous  about  herself.  Moreover,  she  had  suf- 
fered from  sea-sickness.  She  could  not  hide  her 
comfort  to  have  him;  so  he  took  her  up  and 
kissed  her  as  of  old,  and  ended  by  settling  her 
on  his  knee.  There  she  cried,  quietly  but  freely. 
He  stayed  with  her  till  she  slept ;  then  went  back 
to  the  shore  and  walked  about  the  trenches,  think- 
ing out  the  business  before  him.  The  dawn  light 
found  him  at  it.  In  a  day  or  two,  having  got  his 
tackle  ashore,  he  began  the  assault  upon  a  plan 
of  his  own,  without  reference  to  any  other  princi- 
pality or  power  at  all.  By  this  time  King  Philip 
lay  heaped  in  his  bed,  and  had  had  his  distem- 
pered brain  wrought  upon  by  Montferrat  and  his 
kind,  Saint-Pol,  Des  Barres,  and  their  kind. 

Richard  had  with  him  Poictevins  and  Ange- 
vins,  men  of  Provence  and  Languedoc,  Normans 
and  English,  Scots  and  Welshry,  black  Genoese, 


240  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

Sicilians,  Pisans,  and  Grifons  from  Cyprus.  The 
Count  of  Champagne  had  his  Flemings  to  hand ; 
the  Templars  and  the  Hospitallers  served  him 
gladly.  It  was  an  agglomerate,  a  horde,  not  an 
army,  and  nobody  but  he  could  have  wielded  it. 
He,  by  the  virtue  in  him,  had  them  all  at  his  nod. 
The  English,  who  love  to  be  commanded,  hauled 
stones  for  him  all  day,  though  he  had  not  a  word 
of  their  language.  The  swart,  praying  Italians 
raved  themselves  hoarse  whenever  he  came  into 
their  lines ;  even  the  Cypriotes,  sullen  and  timor- 
ous creatures,  whom  no  power  among  themselves 
could  have  driven  to  the  walls,  fixed  the  great 
petraries  and  mangonels,  and  ran  grinning  into 
the  trap  of  death  for  this  tawny-haired  hero  who 
stood  singing,  bareheaded,  within  bow-shot  of  the 
Turks,  and  laughed  like  a  boy  when  some  fellow 
slipped  on  to  his  back  upon  the  dry  grass.  He 
was  everywhere,  day  after  day  —  in  the  trenches, 
on  the  towers,  teaching  the  bowmen  their  busi- 
ness, crying  *  Mort  de  Dieu ! '  when  a  mangonel 
did  its  work,  and  some  flung  rock  made  the  wall 
to  fly;  he  crouched  under  the  tortoise-screens 
with  the  miners,  took  a  mattock  himself  as  indif- 
ferently as  an  arbalest  or  a  cross-bow.  He  could 
do  everything,  and  have  (if  not  a  word)  a  cheerful 
grin  for  every  man  who  did  his  duty.  As  it  was 
evident  that  he  knew  what  such  duty  should 
be,  and  could  have  done  it  better  himself,  men 
sweated  to  win  his  praise.  He  was  nearly  killed 
on  a  scaling-ladder,  too  early  put  up,  or  too  long 
left  so.  Three  arrows  struck  him,  and  the 
defenders,  calling  on  Allah,  rolled  an  enormous 
boulder  to  the  edge  of  the  wall,  which  must  have 


CH.  m  THEY   FIGHT  AT  ACRE  241 

crushed  him  out  of  recognition  on  the  Last  Day. 
*  Garde,  sire ! '  '  Domna  del  Ciel ! '  came  the 
cries  from  below;  but  *  Lady  Virgin  ! '  growled  a 
shockhead  from  Bocton-under-Bleane,  and  pulled 
his  King  bodily  off  the  ladder.  The  poor  fellow 
was  shot  in  the  throat  at  the  next  moment ;  the 
stone  fell  harmless.  King  Richard  took  up  his 
dead  Englishman  in  his  arms  and  carried  him 
to  the  trenches.  He  did  no  more  fighting  until 
he  had  seen  him  buried,  and  ordained  a  mass 
for  him.  Things  of  those  sort  tempted  men  to 
love  him. 

The  siege  lasted  ten  days  or  more  with  varying 
successes.  Day  and  night  in  the  city  they  heard 
the  drums  beat  to  arms,  the  cries  of  the  Sheiks, 
and  more  piercing,  drawn-out  cries  than  theirs. 
To  the  nightly  shrilled  pronouncement  of  the 
greatness  of  God  came  as  answer  the  Christian's 
wailing  prayer,  *  Save  us.  Holy  Sepulchre  ! '  The 
King  of  France  had  an  engine  which  he  called 
The  Bad  Neighbour,  and  did  well  with  it  until 
the  Turks  provided  a  Bad  Kinsman,  much  bigger, 
which  put  the  Neighbour  to  shame,  and  finally 
burned  him.  King  Richard  had  a  belfry,  and  the 
Count  of  Flanders  could  throw  stones  with  his 
sling  from  the  trenches  into  the  market-place ;  at 
any  rate  he  said  he  could,  and  they  all  believed 
him.  The  Christians  caused  the  Accursed  Tower 
to  totter ;  they  made  a  breach  below  the  Tower 
of  Flies,  in  a  most  horrible  part  of  the  haven. 
Mine  and  countermine,  Richard  on  the  north  side 
worked  night  and  day,  denying  himself  rest,  food, 
reasonable  care,  for  a  week  forgetful  of  Jehane 
and  her  hope.     The  weather  grew  stiflingly  hot, 


242  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

night  and  day  there  was  no  breath  of  wind ;  the 
whole  country  reeked  of  death  and  abomination. 
Once,  indeed,  a  gate  was  set  fire  to  and  rushed. 
The  Christians  saw  before  them  for  the  first  time 
the  ghostly  winding  way  of  a  street,  where  blind 
pale  houses  heeled  to  each  other,  six  feet  apart. 
There  was  a  breathless  fight  in  that  pent  way,  a 
strangling,  throttled  business;  Richard  with  his 
peers  of  Normandy,  swaying  banners,  the  crash- 
ing sound  of  steel  on  steel,  the  splash  of  split  polls: 
but  it  could  not  be  carried.  The  Turks,  surging 
down  on  them,  a  wall  of  men,  bodily  forced  them 
out.  There  was  no  room  to  swing  an  axe,  no 
space  for  a  horse  to  fall,  least  of  all  for  draught  of 
the  bow.  Richard  cried  the  retreat ;  they  could 
not  turn,  so  walked  backwards  fighting,  and  the 
Turks  repaired  the  gate.  Acre  did  not  fall  by 
the  sword,  but  by  starvation  rather,  and  the  dili- 
gent negotiations  of  Saladin  with  our  King. 
Richard's  terms  were,  Restore  the  True  Cross, 
empty  us  Acre  of  men-at-arms,  leave  two  thousand 
hostages.  This  was  accepted  at  last.  The  Kings 
rode  into  Acre  on  the  twelfth  of  July  with  their 
hosts,  and  the  hollow-eyed  courtesans  watched 
them  furtively  from  upper  windows.  They  knew 
their  harvest  was  to  reap. 

Harvest  with  them  was  seed-time  with  others.  It 
was  seed-time  with  the  Archduke.  King  Richard 
set  up  his  household  in  the  Castle  (with  a  good 
lodging  for  Jehane  in  the  Street  of  the  Camel) ; 
King  Philip,  miserably  ill,  went  to  the  house  of 
the  Templars;  with  him,  sedulously  his  friend,  the 
Marquess  of  Montferrat.  But  Luitpold  of  Aus- 
tria proposed  himself  for  the  Castle,  and  Richard 


CH.  Ill  THEY  FIGHT  AT  ACRE  243 

endured  him  as  well  as  he  could.  But  then 
Luitpold  went  further.  He  set  up  his  banner  on 
the  tower,  side  by  side  with  Richard's  Dragon, 
meaning  no  offence  at  all.  Now  King  Richard's 
way  was  a  short  way.  He  had  found  the  Arch- 
duke a  burdensome  ass,  but  no  more.  The  world 
was  full  of  such;  one  must  take  them  as  part 
of  the  general  economy  of  Providence.  But  he 
knew  his  own  worth  perfectly  well,  and  his  own 
standing  in  the  host;  so  when  they  told  him 
where  the  Austrian's  flag  flew,  he  said,  *  Take  it 
down.'  They  took  it  down.  Luitpold  grew  red, 
made  a  long  speech  in  German  at  which  Richard 
frowned,  and  another  (shorter)  in  Latin,  at  which 
he  laughed.  Luitpold  put  up  his  flag  again; 
again  Richard  said,  '  Take  it  down.'  Luitpold 
was  so  angry  that  he  made  no  speeches  at  all ;  he 
ran  up  his  flag  a  third  time.  When  King  Richard 
was  told,  he  laughed,  and  on  this  occasion  said, 
'  Throw  it  away.'  Gaston  of  Beam,  more  viva- 
cious than  discreet,  did  so  with  ignominious  de- 
tail. That  day  there  was  a  council  of  the  great 
estates,  at  which  King  Philip  presided  in  a  furred 
gown ;  for  though  the  weather  was  suffocating  his 
fever  kept  him  chill  to  the  bones.  To  the  Mar- 
quess, pale  with  his  old  grudge,  was  now  added 
the  Archduke,  flaming  with  his  new  one.  The 
mottled  Duke  of  Burgundy  blinked  approval  of 
all  grudges,  and  young  Saint- Pol  poured  fire  into 
the  fire.  Richard  was  not  present,  nor  any  of  his 
faction ;  they,  because  they  had  not  been  adver- 
tised, he,  because  he  was  in  the  Street  of  the 
Camel  at  the  knees  of  Jehane  the  Fair. 

The   Archduke  began  on   the   instant.      '  By 


244  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

God,  my  lords/  he  said,  *  is  there  in  the  world 
a  beast  more  flagrant  than  the  King  of  England 
not  killed  already?'  The  Marquess  showed 
the  white  rims  of  his  eyes  —  'Injurious,  des- 
perate, bloody  villain,'  was  his  commentary ;  and 
Saint-Pol  lifted  up  his  hand  to  his  master  for 
leave  to  speak  mischief.  But  King  Philip  said 
fretfully,  '  Well,  well,  we  can  all  speak  of  some- 
thing, I  suppose.  He  scorns  me,  he  has 
always  scorned  me.  He  refuses  me  homage,  he 
shamed  my  sister;  and  now  he  takes  the  lead 
of  me.* 

The  Marquess  kept  muttering  to  the  table, 
*  Hopeless  villain,  hopeless  villain  ! '  and  the  Arch- 
duke, after  staring  about  him  for  sympathy, 
claimed  attention,  if  not  that ;  for  he  brought  his 
fist  down  with  a  thump. 

*  By  thunder,  but  I  kill  him  I '  he  said  deep  in 
his  throat.  Saint-Pol  came  running  and  kissed 
his  knee,  to  Luitpold's  great  surprise. 

Philip  shivered  in  his  furs.  *  I  must  go  home,' 
he  fretted ;  *  I  am  smitten  to  death.  I  must  die 
in  France.* 

*  Where  is  the  King  of  England  ? '  asked  the 
Marquess,  knowing  perfectly  well. 

'Evil  light  upon  him,'  cried  Saint-Pol,  *  he  is 
in  my  sister's  house.  Between  them  they  give 
me  a  nephew.' 

'  Oho  I '  Montferrat  said.  '  Is  that  ft  ?  Why, 
then,  we  know  where  to  strike  him  quickest.  We 
should  make  Navarre  of  our  party.' 

'  He  has  done  that  himself,  by  all  accounts,' 
said  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  wide-awake. 


CH.  m  THEY  FIGHT  AT  ACRE  245 

The  Archduke,  returning  to  his  new  lodgings 
in  the  Bishop's  house,  sent  for  his  astrologers  and 
asked  them.  Could  he  kill  the  King  of  England  ? 

'  My  lord,'  said  they,  '  you  cannot' 

*  How  is  that  ? '  he  asked. 

*  Lord,'  they  told  him,  *  by  our  arts  we  discover 
that  he  will  live  for  a  hundred  years.' 

'  It  is  very  remarkable,'  said  the  Archduke. 
*  What  sort  of  years  will  they  be  ? ' 

'  Lord,'  said  the  astrologers,  *  they  are  divers  in 
complexion  ;  but  many  of  them  are  red.' 

'  I  will  provide  that  they  be,'  said  the  Arch- 
duke.    *  Go  away.' 

The  Marquess  sought  no  astrologers,  but  in- 
stead the  Street  of  the  Camel  and  Jehane's  house. 
He  observed  this  with  great  care,  watching  from 
an  entry  to  see  how  King  Richard  would  come 
out,  whether  attended  or  not.  He  observed  more 
than  the  house,  for  much  more  was  forced  upon 
him.  Human  garbage  filled  the  close  ways  of 
Acre,  men  and  women  marred  by  themselves  or 
a  hideous  begetting,  hairless  persons  and  snug 
little  chamberers,  botch-faces,  scald-heads,  minions 
of  many  sorts,  silent-footed  Arabians  as  shameless 
as  dogs,  Greeks,  pimps  and  panders,  abominable 
women.  Murder  was  swiftly  and  secretly  done. 
Montferrat  from  his  entry  saw  the  manner  of  it. 
A  Norman  knight  called  Hamon  le  Rotrou  came 
out  of  an  infamous  house  in  the  dusk,  and  stepped 
into  the  Street  of  the  Camel  with  his  cloak  deli- 
cately round  him.  Fine  as  he  was,  he  was  insanely 
a  lover  of  the  vile  thing  he  had  left ;  for  he  knelt 
down  in  the  street  to  kiss  her  well-worn  doorstep. 
He  knelt  under  the  light  of  a  small  lamp,  and  out 


246  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

of  the  shadow  behind  him  stepped  catfoot  a  tall 
thin  man,  white  from  head  to  foot,  who,  saying 
*A11  hail,  master,'  stabbed  Hamon  deep  in  the 
side.  Hamon  jerked  up  his  head,  tottered,  fell 
without  more  than  a  tired  man's  sigh  sideways 
into  the  arms  of  his  killer.  This  one  eased  his 
fall  as  tenderly  as  if  he  was  upholding  a  girl,  let 
him  down  into  the  kennel,  drew  him  thence  by 
the  shoulders  into  the  dark,  and  himself  vanished. 
Montferrat  swore  softly  to  himself,  '  That  was 
neatly  done.  I  must  find  out  who  this  expert 
may  be.'  He  went  away  full  of  it,  having  forgot- 
ten his  housed  enemy. 

There  was  a  Sheik  Moffadin  in  the  jail,  one  of 
the  Soldan's  hostages  for  the  return  of  the  True 
Cross.     The  Marquess  went  to  see  him. 

*  Who  of  your  people,'  he  asked,  '  is  very  tall 
and  light-footed,  robes  him  from  head  to  foot  in 
white  linen,  and  kills  quietly,  as  if  he  loved  the 
dead,  with  an  "  All  hail,  master  "  ? ' 

'We  call  him  an  Assassin  in  our  language,' 
the  Sheik  replied ;  '  but  he  is  not  of  our  people 
by  any  means.  He  is  a  servant  of  the  Old  Man 
who  dwells  on  Lebanon.' 

'  What  old  man  is  this,  Moffadin  ? ' 

*  I  can  tell  you  no  more  of  him,'  said  the  Sheik, 
*  save  that  he  is  master  of  many  such  men,  who 
serve  him  faithfully  and  in  silence.  But  he  hates 
the  Soldan,  and  the  Soldan  him.' 

'  How  do  they  serve  him,  by  killing? ' 

*  Yes.  They  kill  whomsoever  he  points  out,  and 
so  receive  (or  think  to  receive)  a  crown  in  Paradise.* 

'  Is  this  old  man's  name  Death,  by  our  Saviour?  * 
cried  the  Marquess. 


CH.  in  THEY   FIGHT  AT  ACRE  24) 

The  Sheik  answered,  *  His  name  is  Sinan. 
But  the  name  of  Death  would  suit  him  very 
well' 

'  Where  should  I  get  speech  with  some  of  his 
servants  ? '  the  Marquess  inquired  ;  adding,  '  For 
my  life  is  in  danger.  I  have  enemies  who  are 
irksome  to  me.' 

'  By  the  Tower  of  Flies  you  will  find  them,' 
said  the  Sheik,  'and  late  at  night.  There  are 
always  some  of  his  people  walking  there.  Seek 
out  such  a  man  as  you  have  seen,  and  without 
fear  accost  him  after  his  fashion,  kissing  him  and 
saying,  "  Ah,  Ali.    Ah,  Abdallah,  servant  of  AH.'" 

*  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Moffadin/ 
said  the  Marquess. 

That  same  night  Jehane  was  in  pain,  and  King 
Richard  dared  not  leave  her,  nor  the  physicians 
either.  And  in  the  morning  early  she  was  de- 
livered of  a  child,  a  strong  boy,  and  then  lay 
back  and  slept  profoundly.  Richard  set  two 
black  women  to  fan  the  flies  off  her  without 
stopping  once  under  pain  of  death ;  and  having 
seen  to  the  proper  care  of  the  child  and  other 
things,  returned  alone  through  the  blanching 
streets,  glorifying  and  praising  God. 


CHAPTER   IV 

CX)NCERNING  THE  TOWER  OF  FLIES,  SAINT-POL,  AND 
THE  MARQUESS  OF  MONTFERRAT 

In  the  church  of  Saint  Lazarus  of  the  Knights, 
on  Lammas  Day,  the  son  of  Richard  and  Jehane 
was  made  a  Christian  by  the  Abbot  of  Poictiers. 
Gossips  were  the  Count  of  Champagne,  the  Earl 
of  Leicester,  and  (by  proxy)  the  Queen-Mother. 
He  was  named  Fulke. 

At  the  moment  of   anointing  the  church-bell 

was  rung;  and  at  that  moment  Gilles  de  Gurdun 

spat  upon  the  pavement  outside.     Saint-Pol  said 

to  him,  '  We  must  do  better  than  that,  Gilles.' 

And  Gilles,  *  I  pray  God  may  spit  him  out' 

*Oh,  He!'  said  Saint-Pol  with  a  bitter  laugh; 

*  He  helps  those  who  are  helpful  of  themselves.' 

*  I  cannot  help  myself,  Eustace,'  said  Gurdun. 

*  I  have  tried.  I  had  him  unarmed  before  me 
at  Messina,  and  he  looked  me  down,  and  I 
could  not  do  it' 

'  Have  at  his  back,  then.' 

*  I  hope  it  may  not  come  to  that,  said  Gilles ; 
*and  yet  it  may,  if  it  must' 

*  Come  with  me  to-night  to  the  Tower  of  Flies,* 
said  Saint- Pol.  *  Here  is  my  shameful  sister 
brought  out  of  church.     I  cannot  stay.' 

*  I  stay,'  said  Gilles  de  Gurdun.  King  Richard 
came  out  of  church,  and  Jehane,  and  the  child 
carried  on  a  shield. 

248 


CH.  IV  THE  TOWER  OF  FLIES  249 

Jehane,  who  had  much  ado  to  walk  without 
falling,  saw  not  Gilles;  but  Gilles  saw  her,  and 
the  red  in  his  face  took  a  tinge  of  black.  While 
she  was  before  him  he  gaped  at  her,  with  a  dry 
tongue  clacking  in  his  mouth,  consumed  by  a 
dreadful  despair;  but  when  she  had  passed  by, 
swaying  in  her  weakness,  barely  able  to  hold  up 
her  lovely  head,  he  lifted  his  face  to  the  white 
sky,  and  looked  unwinking  at  the  sun,  wondering 
where  else  an  equal  cruelty  could  abide.  In  this 
golden  king,  as  cruel  as  the  sun,  and  as  swift, 
and  as  splendid  !  Ah,  dastard,  dastard !  At  the 
minute  Gilles  could  have  leapt  at  him  and  mauled 
the  great  shoulders  with  a  dog  s  weapons.  There 
was  no  solace  for  him  but  to  bite.  So  he  dashed 
his  forearm  into  his  face,  and  sluiced  his  teeth 
in  that. 

But  King  Richard  of  the  high  head  mounted 
his  horse  in  the  churchyard,  and  rode  among  the 
people  before  Jehane's  bearers  to  the  Street  of  the 
Camel.  Squires  of  his  threw  silver  coins  among 
the  crowds  who  filled  the  ways. 

Within  the  house,  he  laid  her  on  her  bed,  and 
held  up  the  child  before  her,  high  in  the  air.  He 
was  in  that  great  mood  where  nothing  could  resist 
him.  She,  faint  and  fragrant  on  the  bed,  so  frail 
as  to  seem  transparent,  a  disembodied  sprite,  smiled 
because  she  felt  at  ease,  as  the  feeble  do  when 
they  first  lie  down. 

*  Lo,  Fulke  of  Anjou ! '  sang  Richard  —  *  Fulke, 
son  of  Richard,  the  son  of  Henry,  the  son  of 
Geoffrey,  the  son  of  Fulke !  Fulke,  my  son 
Fulke,  I  will  make  thee  a  knight  even  now  ! '  '  He 
held  the  babe  in  one  hand,  with  the  free  hand 


250  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

drew  his  long  sword.     The  flat  blade  touched  the 
nodding  little  head. 

*  Rise  up,  Sir  Fulke  of  Anjou,  true  knight  of 
thine  house,  Sieur  de  Cuigny  when  I  have  thee 
home  again.  By  the  Face ! '  he  cried  shortly,  as 
if  remembering  something,  '  we  must  get  him  the 
badge :  a  switch  of  wild  broom ! ' 

*  Dear  lord,  sweet  lord,*  murmured  Jehane, 
faint  in  bed,  nearly  gone:  but  he  raved  on. 

*  When  I  lay,  even  as  thou,  Fulke,  naked  by  my 
mother,  my  father  sent  for  a  branch  of  the  broom, 
and  stuck  it  in  the  pillow  against  I  could  carry  it. 
And  shalt  thou  go  without  it,  boy  ?  Art  not  thou 
of  the  broom-bearers  ?  *  He  put  the  child  into 
the  nurse's  arm  and  went  to  the  door.  He  called 
for  Gaston  of  Beam,  for  the  Dauphin  of  Au- 
vergne,  for  Mercadet,  for  the  devil.  The  Bishop 
of  Salisbury  came  running  in.  *  Bishop,'  said 
King  Richard,  *  you  must  serve  me  to-day.  You 
must  take  ship,  my  friend,  with  speed ;  you  must 
go  to  Bordeaux,  thence  a-horseback  to  the  moor 
above  Angers.  Pluck  me  a  branch  of  the  wild 
broom  and  return.  I  must  have  it,  I  tell  you; 
so  go.     Haste,  Bishop.     God  be  with  you.' 

The  Bishop  began  to  splutter.    '  Hey,  sire !  * 

'  Never  call  me  that  again.  Bishop,  if  your  ship 
is  within  sight  by  sunset,'  he  said.  '  Call  me  rather 
the  Prince  of  the  Devils.  See  my  chancellor,  take 
my  ring  to  him,  omit  nothing.  Off  with  you,  and 
back  with  all  speed.' 

*  Ha,  sire,  look  you  now,'  cried  the  desperate 
bishop, '  there  will  be  no  broom  before  next  Easter. 
Here  we  are  at  Lammas.' 

*  There  will  be  a  miracle,'  said  Richard ;  *  I  am 


CH.  IV  THE  TOWER  OF  FLIES  251 

sure  of  it.  Go/  Fairly  pushing  him  from  the 
door,  he  returned  to  find  Jehane  in  a  dead  faint. 
This  set  him  raving  a  new  tune.  He  fell  upon  his 
knees  incontinent,  raised  her  in  his  arms,  carried 
her  about,  kissed  her  all  over,  cried  upon  the  saints 
and  God,  did  every  extravagance  under  the 
sun,  omitted  the  one  wise  thing  of  letting  in  the 
physicians.  Abbot  Milo  at  last,  coming  in,  saved 
Jehane  from  him  for  the  deeper  purposes  of  God. 
The  Count  of  Saint- Pol,  going  to  the  Castle,  to 
the  Queen's  side,  found  the  Marquess  with  her. 
She  also  lay  white  and  twisting  on  a  couch,  crisp- 
ing and  uncrisping  her  little  hands.  Montferrat 
stood  at  her  head  ;  three  of  her  ladies  knelt  about 
her,  whispering  in  her  own  tongue,  proffering 
orange  water,  sweetmeats,  a  feather  whisk.  Saint- 
Pol  knelt  in  her  view. 

*  Madame,  how  is  it  with  your  Grace  ? '  he  said. 
The  little  lady  quivered,  but  took  no  notice. 

*  Madame,'  said  Saint-Pol  again,  '  I  am  a  peer 
of  France,  but  a  knight  before  all.  I  am  come  to 
serve  your  Grace  with  my  manhood.  I  pray  you 
speak  to  me.'  The  Marquess  folded  his  arms; 
his  large  white  face  was  a  sight  to  see. 

Queen  Berengere's  palms  were  bleeding  a  little 
where  her  nails  had  broken  the  skin.  She  was 
quite  white  ;  but  her  eyes,  burning  black,  had  no 
pupils.  When  Saint-Pol  spoke  for  the  second 
time  she  shook  beyond  all  control  and  threw  her 
head  about.     Also  she  spoke. 

*  I  suffer,  I  suffer  horribly.  It  is  cruel  beyond 
understanding  or  knowledge  that  a  girl  should 
suffer  as  I  suffer.  Where  is  God.f*  Where  is 
Mary  ?     Where  are  the  angels  i ' 


252  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

'  Dearest  Madame,  dearest  Madame,'  said  the 
cooing  women,  and  one  stroked  her  face.  But 
the  Queen  shook  the  hand  off,  and  went  waihng 
on,  saying  more  than  she  could  have  meant. 

*  Is  it  good  usage  of  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
Lord  Jesus?  Is  this  the  way  of  marriage,  that 
the  bride  be  left  on  her  wedding  day?'  She 
jumped  up  on  her  couch  and  took  hold  of  her 
bosom  in  the  sight  of  men.  '  She  hath  given  him 
a  child !  He  is  with  her  now.  Am  I  not  fit  for 
children  ?  Shall  there  never  be  milk  ?  Oh,  oh, 
here  is  more  shame  than  I  can  bear ! '  She  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands,  and  rocked  herself  about. 

Montferrat  (really  moved)  said  low  to  Saint- 
Pol  :  '  Are  we  knights  to  suffer  these  wrongs  to 
be  ? '  Said  Saint-Pol  with  a  sob  in  his  voice, '  Ah, 
God,  mend  it ! ' 

'  He  will,'  said  Montferrat, '  if  we  help  to  mend.' 

This  reminded  Saint-Pol  of  his  own  words  to 
De  Gurdun ;  so  he  made  haste  to  throw  himself 
before  the  Queen,  that  he  might  still  be  pure  in 
his  devotion.  '  My  lady  Berengere,'  he  said 
ardently,  '  take  me  for  your  soldier.  I  am  a  bad 
man,  but  surely  not  so  bad  as  this.  Let  me  fight 
him  for  you.' 

The  Queen  shook  her  head,  impatient.  *  Hey ! 
What  can  you  do  against  so  glorious  a  man  ?  He 
is  the  greatest  in  the  world.' 

'  Ha,  domeneddio ! '  said  the  Marquess  with  a 
snort.  '  I  have  that  which  will  abate  such  glory. 
Dearest  Madame,  we  go  to  pray  for  your  health.' 
He  kissed  her  hand,  and  drew  away  with  him 
Saint-Pol,  who  was  trembling  under  the  thoughts 
that  fired  him. 


CH.  IV  THE  TOWER  OF  FLIES  253 

'  Oh,  my  soul,  Marquess ! '  said  the  youth,  when 
they  were  in  the  glare  of  day  again.  '  What  shall 
we  do  to  mend  this  wretchedness  ? '  The  Marquess 
looked  shrewdly. 

'  End  the  wretch  who  wrought  it.' 

*  Do  we  go  clean  to  that.  Marquess  ?  Have  we 
no  back-thoughts  of  our  own  ? ' 

'  The  work  is  clean  enough.  You  come  to-night 
to  the  Tower  of  Flies  ? ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  will  come,'  said  Saint-Pol. 

*  I  shall  have  one  with  me,'  the  Marquess  went 
on,  '  who  will  be  of  service,  mind  you.' 

*  Ah,'  said  Saint-Pol,  '  and  so  shall  I.* 

The  Marquess  stroked  his  nose.  *  Hum,'  he 
said,  advising,  'who  might  your  man  be,  Saint- 
Pol.?' 

*  One,'  said  Eustace,  *  who  has  reason  to  hate 
Richard  as  much  as  that  poor  lady  in  there.' 

*  Who  is  that } ' 

*  My  sister  Jehane's  lover.' 

*  By  the  visible  Host,'  said  Montferrat,  *  we  shall 
be  a  loving  company,  all  told.'  So  they  parted  for 
the  time. 

The  Tower  of  Flies  stands  apart  from  the  city 
on  a  spit  of  sand  which  splays  out  into  two  flanges, 
and  so  embraces  in  two  hooks  a  lagoon  of  scummy 
ooze,  of  weeds  and  garbage,  of  all  the  waste  and 
silt  of  a  slack  water.  In  front  of  it  only  is  the 
tidal  sea,  which  there  flows  languidly  with  a  half- 
foot  rise;  on  the  other  is  the  causeway  running 
up  to  the  city  wall.  Above  and  all  about  this 
dead  marsh  you  hear  day  and  night  the  buzzing 
of  innumerable  great  flies,  and  in  the  daytime  see 
them  hanging  like  gauze  in  the  thick  air.     They 


254  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

say  the  reason  is  that  anciently  the  pagans  sacri- 
ficed hecatombs  hereabout  to  the  idols  they  wor- 
shipped; but  another  (more  likely)  is  that  the 
lagoon  is  a  dead  slack,  and  stinks  abominably. 
All  dead  things  thrown  from  the  city  walls  come 
floating  thither,  and  there  stay  rotting.  The  flies 
get  what  they  can,  sharing  with  the  creatures  of 
land  and  sea;  for  great  fish  feed  there;  and  at 
night  the  jackals  and  hyaenas  come  down,  and 
bicker  over  what  they  can  drag  out.  But  more 
than  once  or  twice  the  sharks  drag  them  in,  and 
have  fresh  meat,  if  their  brother  sharks  allow  it. 
However  all  this  may  be,  the  place  has  a  dreadful 
name,  a  dreadful  smell,  and  a  dreadful  sound,  what 
with  the  humming  of  flies  and  dull  rippling  of  the 
sharks.  These  can  seldom  be  seen,  since  the  water 
is  too  thick ;  but  you  can  tell  their  movements  by 
the  long  oily  waves  (like  the  heads  of  large  arrows) 
which  their  fins  throw  behind  them  as  they  quest 
from  carcase  to  carcase  down  there  in  the  ooze. 

Thither  in  the  murk  of  night  came  Montferrat 
in  a  black  cloak,  holding  his  nose,  but  made  fever- 
ish through  his  ears  by  the  veiled  chorus  of  the 
flies.  By  the  starshine  and  glow  of  the  putrid 
water  he  saw  a  tall  man  in  a  white  robe,  who 
stood  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  spit  and  looked 
at  the  sharks.  Montferrat  hid  his  guards  behind 
the  Tower,  crossed  himself,  drew  his  sword  to  hack 
a  way  through  the  monstrous  flies,  and  so  came 
swishing  forward,  like  a  man  who  mows  a  swathe. 

The  tall  man  saw  him,  but  did  not  move. 
The  Marquess  came  quite  close. 

'  What  are  you  looking  at,  my  friend  ? '  he 
asked,  in  the  Arabian  tongue. 


cH.nr  THE  TOWER  OF  FLIES  255 

*  I  am  looking  at  the  sharks,  which  have  a 
new  corpse  in  there,'  said  the  man.  *  See  what 
a  turmoil  there  is  in  the  water.  There  must  be 
six  monsters  together  in  that  swirl.  See,  see, 
there  speeds  another !  * 

The  Marquess  turned  sick.  *  God  help,  I 
cannot  look,'  he  said. 

*  Why,'  said  the  Arabian,  *  It  is  a  dead  man 
they  fight  over.' 

*  May  be,  may  be,'  said  the  Marquess.  *  You, 
my  friend,  are  very  familiar  with  death.  So  am 
I;  nor  do  I  fear  living  man.  But  these  great 
fish  terrify  me.' 

'  You  are  a  fool,'  returned  the  other.  *  They 
seek  only  their  meat.  But  you  and  I,  and  our 
like,  seek  nicer  things  than  that.  We  have  our 
souls  to  feed;  and  the  soul  of  a  man  is  a  free 
eater,  of  stranger  appetite  than  a  shark.' 

The  Marquess  looked  at  the  flies.  *  O  God, 
Arabian,  let  us  go  away  from  this  place!  Is 
there  no  rest  from  the  flies  ? ' 

*  None  at  all,'  said  the  Arabian ;  *  for  thou- 
sands have  been  slain  here;  and  the  flies  also 
must  be  fed.' 

*  Pah,  horrible !  *  said  the  Marquess,  all  in  a 
sweat  The  Arabian  turned;  but  his  face  was 
hidden,  with  a  horrible  appearance,  as  if  a  hooded 
cloak  stood  up  by  itself  and  a  voice  proceeded 
from  a  fleshless  garb.  '  You,  Marquess  of  Mont- 
ferrat,'  it  said,  'what  do  you  want  with  me  by 
the  Tower  of  Flies } ' 

The  Marquess  remembered  his  needs.  *  I 
want  the  death  of  a  man,'  he  said ;  '  but  not 
here,  O  Christ.' 


2s6  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

'  Who  sent  you  ? '  asked  the  Arabian. 

*  The  Sheik  Moffadin,  a  captive,  in  the  name 
of  AH,  and  of  Abdallah,  servant  of  Ali.'  So 
the  Marquess,  and  would  have  kissed  the  man, 
but  that  he  saw  no  face  under  the  hood,  and 
dared  not  kiss  emptiness. 

*  Come  with  me,'  said  the  Arabian. 

An  hour  later  the  Marquess  came  into  the 
Tower  of  Flies,  shaking.  He  found  Saint-Pol 
there,  the  Archduke  of  Austria,  and  Gilles  de 
Gurdun.     There  were  no  greetings. 

'  Where  is  your  man.  Marquess } '  asked  Saint- 
Pol  of  the  pale  Italian. 

*  He  is  out  yonder  looking  at  the  sharks,*  said 
the  Marquess,  in  a  whisper ;  '  but  he  will  serve  us 
if  we  dare  use  him.'  He  struck  at  the  flies  weav- 
ing about  his  head.  *  This  is  a  horrible  place, 
Saint-Pol,'  he  said,  staring.     Saint-Pol  shrugged. 

'  The  deed  we  compass,  dear  Marquess,  is 
none  of  the  choicest,  remember,'  said  he.  The 
Marquess  then  saw  that  Austria's  broad  leather 
back  was  covered  with  flies.  This  quickened  his 
loathing. 

'  By  our  Saviour,'  he  said, '  one  must  hate  a  man 
very  much  to  talk  against  him  here.' 

*  Do  you  hate  enough  ? '  asked  Saint- Pol. 

The  Marquess  stared  about  him.  He  saw  the 
Archduke  peacefully  twiddle  his  thumbs.  He 
saw  De  Gurdun,  who  stood  moodily,  looking  at 
the  floor. 

'  Oh,  content  you,'  Saint-Pol  answered  him. 
'  That  man  hates  more  than  you  or  I.  And  with 
more  reason.* 


CH.  IV  THE  TOWER  OF  FLIES  257 

*What  are  your  reasons,  Eustace?'  asked 
Montferrat,  still  in  a  whisper. 

*  I  hate  him,'  said  Saint-Pol,  'for  my  brother's 
sake,  whose  back  he  broke ;  for  my  sister's  sake, 
whose  heart  he  must  break  before  he  has  done 
with  her;  for  my  house's  sake,  to  which  (in  Eudo's 
person)  he  gave  the  lie ;  because  he  is  of  Anjou, 
cruel  as  a  cat  and  savage  as  a  dog ;  because  he  is 
a  ruthless,  swift,  treacherous,  secret,  unconscion- 
able beast.  Are  these  enough  reasons  for 
you  ? ' 

'  By  God,  Eustace,'  said  the  breathless  Mont- 
ferrat, '  I  cannot  think  it.     Not  here  ! ' 

*  Then,'  said  Saint-Pol,  '  I  hate  him  for 
Berengere's  sweet  sake.  That  is  a  good  and 
clean  hatred,  I  believe.  That  wasted  lady,  writh- 
ing white  on  a  bed,  moved  me  to  pure  pity.  If  I 
loved  her  before  I  will  love  her  now  with  whole 
service,  not  daring  belie  my  knighthood.  I  love 
that  queen  and  intend  to  serve  her.  I  have  never 
seen  such  pitiful  beauty  before.  What !  Is  the 
man  insatiate  ?  Shall  he  have  everything  ?  He 
shall  have  nothing.  That  will  serve  for  me,  I 
hope.     Now,  Marquess,  it  is  your  turn.' 

The  Marquess  struck  out  at  the  flies.  '  I  hate 
him,'  he  said, '  because,  before  the  King  of  France, 
he  called  me  a  liar  and  threatened  me  with  igno- 
minious death.'  He  gasped  here,  and  looked 
round  him  to  see  what  effect  he  had  made.  Saint- 
Pol's  eyes  (green-grey  like  his  sister's)  were  upon 
him,  rather  coldly;  Gurdun's  on  the  floor  still. 
The  Archduke  was  scratching  in  his  beard ;  and 
the  chorus  of  flies  swelled  and  shrilled.  The 
Marquess  needed  alliances. 


258  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

*  Eh,  my  friends,'  he  said,  almost  praying,  *  will 
this  not  serve  me  ? ' 

Said  Saint- Pol,  '  Marquess,  listen  to  this  man. 
Speak,  Gilles.' 

Gilles  looked  up.  '  I  have  tried  to  kill  him. 
I  had  my  chance  fair.  I  could  not  do  it.  1  shall 
try  again,  for  the  law  is  on  my  side;  To  you, 
lords,  I  shall  say  nothing,  for  I  am  a  man  ashamed 
to  speak  of  what  I  desire  to  do,  not  yet  certain 
whether  I  can  accomplish  it.  This  I  say,  the  man 
is  my  liege  lord,  but  a  thief  for  all  that.  I  loved 
my  Lady  Jehane  when  she  was  twelve  years  old 
and  I  a  page  in  her  father's  house.  I  have  never 
loved  any  other  woman,  and  never  shall.  There 
are  no  other  women.  She  gave  herself  to  me  for 
good  reason,  and  he  himself  gave  her  into  my 
hand  for  good  reason.  And  then  he  robbed  me 
of  her  on  my  wedding  day,  and  has  slain  my  father 
and  young  brother  to  keep  her.  He  has  given 
her  a  child :  enough  of  this.  Dastard  !  I  will 
follow  and  follow  until  I  dare  to  strike.  Then 
I  will  kill  him.  Let  me  alone.'  Gilles,  red  and 
gloomy,  had  to  jerk  the  words  out:  he  was  no 
speaker.     The  Marquess  had  a  fierce  eye. 

'  Ha,  De  Gurdun,'  he  said, '  we  need  thee,  good 
knight.  But  come  out  of  this  accursed  fly-roost, 
and  we  shall  show  thee  a  better  way  than  thine. 
It  is  the  flies  that  make  thee  afraid.' 

'  Eh,  damn  the  flies,'  said  Gilles.  *  They  will 
never  disturb  me.     They  do  but  seek  their  meat' 

*  They  disturb  me  horribly,'  said  the  Marquess, 
with  Italian  candour. 

Saint-Pol  laughed.  '  I  told  you  that  I  could 
bring  you  in  a  man,'  he  said.     '  Now,  Marquess, 


CH.  IV  THE  TOWER  OF  FLIES  259 

you    have   our    two    clean    reasons.  What    is 
yours  ? ' 

*  I  have  given  you  mine,'  said  Montferrat, 
shifting  his  feet.     *  He  called  me  a  liar.' 

'  It  lacks  cogency,'  said  Saint-Pol.  '  One  must 
have  clean  reasons  in  an  unclean  place.'  The 
Marquess  broke  out  into  blasphemy. 

'  May  hell  scorch  us  all  if  I  have  no  reasons ! 
What !  Has  he  not  kept  me  from  my  kingdom  ? 
Guy  of  Lusignan  will  be  king  by  his  means. 
What  is  Philip  against  Richard  ?  What  am  I  ? 
What  is  the  Archduke .? '  He  had  forgotten  that 
the  Archduke  was  there. 

'  By  Beelzebub,  the  god  of  this  place,'  said 
that  deep-voiced  hairy  man,  '  you  shall  see  what 
the  Archduke  is  when  you  want  him.  But  I  am 
no  murderer.  I  am  going  home.  I  know  what 
is  due  to  a  prince,  and  from  a  prince.' 

'  Do  as  you  please,  my  lord,'  said  Saint-Pol ; 
'  but  our  schemes  are  like  to  be  endangered  by 
such  goings.' 

*  I  have  so  little  liking  for  your  schemes,  to  be 
plain  with  you,'  replied  the  Archduke,  '  that  they 
may  fail  and  fail  again  for  me.  How  I  deal  with 
the  King  of  England,  who  has  insulted  me  beyond 
hope,  is  a  matter  for  him  and  me  to  determine.' 

'  Cousin,'  said  Montferrat,  '  you  desert  me.' 
'  Cousin   again,'  said   the  Archduke,  '  do   you 
wonder  ? '     And  so  he  walked  out. 

*  Punctilious  boar ! '  cried  Saint-Pol  in  a  fume, 
*  who  can  only  get  his  tushes  in  one  way !  Now, 
Marquess,  what  are  we  to  do  ? ' 

The  Marquess  smiled  darkly,  and  tapped  his 
nose.    *  I  have  my  business  in  good  train.    I  have 


26o  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

an  ancient  friend  on  Lebanon.    Stand  in  with  me, 
the  pair  of  you,  and  I  have  all  done  smoothly/ 

'  You  hire  ? '  asked  Saint-Pol,  drily.  Then  he 
shrugged  —  *  Oh,  but  we  may  trust  you  ! ' 

*  Per  la  Madonna ! '  said  the  Marquess. 

*  What  will  you  do,  Gilles  ? '  Saint- Pol  asked 
the  Norman.  '  Will  you  leave  it  to  the  Marquess 
of  Montferrat  ? ' 

*  I  will  not,'  said  Gilles.  '  I  follow  King  Rich- 
ard from  point  to  point.     I  hire  nobody.' 

The  Marquess's  hands  went  up,  desperate  of  such 
folly.     *  You  only  with  me,  my  Eustace  ! '  he  said. 

Saint-Pol  looked  up.  '  I  differ  frogi  either.  I 
have  a  finer  plan  than  either.  You  are  satisfied 
with  a  sword-stroke  in  the  back ' 

'  By  my  soul,  it  shall  not  be  in  the  back ! '  cried 
De  Gurdun.     Saint-Pol  shrugged  again. 

'  That  is  the  Marquess's  v/ay.  But  what  matter.? 
You  want  to  see  him  down.  So  do  I,  by  heaven, 
but  in  hell,  not  on  the  earth.  I  will  see  him 
tormented.  I  will  see  him  ashamed.  I  will 
wreck  his  hopes.  I  will  make  him  a  mockery 
of  all  kings,  drag  his  high  spirit  through  the  mud 
of  disastrousness.  Pouf !  Do  you  think  him  all 
flesh.?  He  is  finer  stuff  than  that.  What  he 
makes  others  I  seek  to  make  him —  soiled,  defiled, 
a  blown  rag.  There  is  work  to  be  done  in  that 
kind  here  and  at  home.  King  Philip  will  see  to 
one ;  I  stay  with  the  host' 

*  It  is  a  good  plan,'  said  the  Marquess ;  *  I 
admire  it  exceedingly.  But  steel  is  safer  for  a 
common  man.  I  go  to  Lebanon,  for  my  part, 
to  my  friends  there.  But  I  think  we  are  in  agree' 
ment/ 


CH.  IV  THE  TOWER  OF  FLIES  261 

Before  they  went  away,  they  cut  their  arms 
with  a  dagger,  and  mingled  their  blood.  The 
Marquess  wrapped  his  wound  deep  in  his  cloak  to 
keep  the  flies  from  it.  Across  the  silence  of  the 
night,  as  they  made  their  way  into  the  city,  came 
the  cry  of  the  watchman  from  a  belfry:  'Save 
us.  Holy  Sepulchre ! '  It  floated  from  tower  to 
tower,  from  land  far  out  to  sea.  Jehane,  dry  in 
her  hot  bed,  heard  it;  Richard,  on  his  knees  in 
an  oratory,  heard  it,  crossed  himself,  and  repeated 
the  words.  Queen  Berengere  moaned  in  her 
sleep;  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  snored;  and  the 
Arabian  spat  into  the  lagoon. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  CHAPTER  OF  FORBIDDING:    HOW  DE  GURDUN 
LOOKED,  AND   KING  RICHARD  HID  HIS  FACE 

Since  the  Soldan  broke  his  pledges,  King  Rich- 
ard swore  that  he  would  keep  his.  So  he  had 
all  the  two  thousand  hostages  killed,  except 
the  Sheik  Moffadin,  whom  the  Marquess  had 
enlarged.  He  has  been  blamed  for  this,  and  I  (if 
it  were  my  business)  should  blame  him  too.  He 
asked  no  counsel,  and  allowed  no  comment :  by 
this  time  he  was  absolute  over  the  armies  in  Acre. 
If  I  am  to  say  anything  upon  the  red  business  it 
shall  be  this,  that  he  knew  very  well  where  his 
danger  lay.  It  was  his  friends,  not  his  enemies, 
he  had  reason  to  fear ;  and  upon  these  the  effect 
of  what  he  did  was  instantaneous,  and  perhaps 
well-timed.  The  Count  of  Flanders  had  died  of 
the  camp-sickness;  King  Philip  was  stricken  to 
the  bones  with  the  same  crawling  disease.  Noth- 
ing now  could  keep  Philip  away  from  France. 
Acre  was  full  of  rumours,  meetings  of  kings  and 
princes,  spies,  racing  messengers.  Who  should 
stay  and  who  go  was  the  matter  of  debate. 
Philip  meant  to  go:  his  friend.  Prince  John  of 
England,  had  been  writing  to  him.  Flanders 
must  be  occupied,  and  Flanders,  near  England, 
was  nearer  yet  to  Normandy.  The  Marquess 
also  meant  to  go  —  to  Sidon  for  Lebanon.     He 

262 


CH.v  THE  FORBIDDING  263 

had  things  to  do  up  there  on  Richard's  and  his 
own  account,  as  you  shall  hear.  But  the  Arch- 
duke chose  to  stay  in  Acre  —  and  so  on. 

King  Richard  heard  of  each  of  these  hasty  dis- 
cussions with  a  shrug,  and  only  put  his  hand  down 
when  they  were  all  concluded.  He  said  that 
unless  French  hostages  were  left  in  his  keeping 
for  the  fulfilment  of  covenants,  he  should  know 
what  to  do. 

*  And  what  is  that,  King  of  England  ?  '  asked 
Philip. 

*What  becomes  me,*  was  the  short  answer, 
given  in  full  hall  before  the  magnates.  They 
looked  at  each  other  and  askance  at  the  sanguine- 
hued  King,  who  drove  them  all  huddling  before 
him  by  mere  magnanimity.  What  could  they  do 
but  leave  hostages  ?  They  left  Burgundy,  Beau- 
vais,  and  Henry  of  Champagne  —  one  friend,  one 
enemy,  and  one  blockhead.  Now  you  see  a  reason 
for  drawing  the  sword  upon  the  wretched  Turks. 
If  Richard  had  planted,  they,  poor  devils,  had  to 
water. 

So  King  Philip  went  home,  and  the  Marquess 
to  Sidon  for  Lebanon  ;  and  Richard,  knowing  full 
well  that  they  meant  him  ill  here  and  at  home, 
turned  his  face  towards  Jerusalem. 

When  the  time  came  for  ordering  the  goings  of 
his  host,  he  grew  very  nervous  about  what  he 
must  leave  behind  him  in  Acre.  Whether  he 
was  a  good  man  or  not,  a  good  husband,  a  good 
lover  or  not,  he  was  passionately  a  father.  In 
every  surge  and  cry  of  his  wild  heart  he  showed 
this.     The  heart  is  a  generous  inn,  keeps  open 


264  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

house,  grows  wide  to  meet  all  comers.  The  com- 
pany is  divers.  In  King  Richard's  heart  sat  three 
guests:  Christ  and  His  lost  Cross,  Jehane  and 
her  lost  honour,  and  little  Fulke  upon  her  breast. 
Christ  was  a  dumb  guest,  but  the  most  eloquent 
still.  There  had  been  no  nods  from  Him  since  the 
great  day  of  Fontevrauit;  but  Richard  watched 
Him  daily  and  held  himself  bound  to  be  His  foot- 
boy.  See  these  desperate  shifts  of  the  great- 
hearted man  !  Here  were  his  two  other  guests : 
little  Fulke,  who  claimed  everything,  and  still 
Jehane,  who  claimed  nothing;  and  outside  the 
door  stood  Berengere,  crisping  and  uncrisping  her 
small  hands.  To  serve  Christ  he  had  married  the 
Queen ;  to  serve  the  Queen  he  had  put  away 
Jehane;  to  honour  Jehane  (who  had  given  him 
her  honour)  he  had  abjured  the  Queen.  Now 
lastly,  he  prayed  Christ  to  save  him  Fulke,  his 
first  and  only  son.  '  My  Saviour  Christ,'  he  prayed 
on  his  last  night  at  Acre,  '  let  Thine  honour  be 
the  first  end  of  this  adventure.  But  if  honour 
come  to  Thee,  my  Lord,  through  me,  let  honour 
stay  with  me  and  my  son  through  Thee.  I  cannot 
think  I  do  amiss  to  ask  so  much.  One  other 
thing  I  ask  before  I  go  out.  Watch  over  these 
treasures  of  mine  that  I  leave  in  pawn,  for  I  know 
very  well  that  I  shall  get  no  more  of  them.'  Then 
he  kissed  the  mother  and  the  child,  comforting 
them,  and  went  out,  not  trusting  himself  to  look 
back  at  the  house. 

He  had  made  the  defences  of  Acre  as  good  as 
he  knew,  which  was  very  good  indeed.  He  had 
bettered  the  harbour;  he  left  ships  in  it,  estab- 
lished a  post  between  it  and  Beyrout,  between 


CH.v  THE  FORBIDDING  265 

Beyrout  and  Cyprus.  He  sent  Guy  of  Lusignan 
to  be  his  regent  in  that  island,  Emperor  if  he 
chose.  He  left  Abbot  Milo  to  comfort  Jehane, 
the  Viscount  of  Beziers  to  rule  the  town  and 
garrison.  Shriven,  fortified  with  the  Sacrament, 
he  spent  his  last  night  in  Acre  on  the  21st  of 
August.  Next  morning,  as  soon  as  it  was  day, 
he  led  his  army  out  on  its  march  to  Jerusalem. 

Joppa  was  his  immediate  object,  to  which  place 
a  road  ran  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
never  far  from  either.  He  had  little  or  no  trans- 
port, nor  could  expect  food  by  the  way,  for 
Saladin  had  seen  to  that.  The  ships  had  to 
work  down  level  with  him,  with  reserves  of  men 
and  stores;  and  even  so  the 'thing  had  an  ugly 
look.  The  mountains  of  Ephraim,  not  very  lofty, 
were  covered  with  a  thick  growth  of  holm-oak : 
excellent  cover,  wherein,  as  he  knew  quite  well, 
the  Saracens  could  move  as  he  moved,  choose 
their  time,  and  attack  him  on  front,  rear,  or  left 
flank,  wherever  chance  offered.  It  was  a  journey 
of  peril,  harassing,  slow,  and  without  glory. 

For  six  weeks  he  led  and  held  a  running  battle, 
wherein  the  powers  of  earth  and  air,  the  powers  of 
Mahomet,  and  dark  forces  within  his  own  lines  all 
strove  against  him.  He  met  them  alone,  with  a 
blank  face,  eyes  bare,  teeth  hard-set.  Whatever 
provocation  was  offered  from  without  or  within, 
he  would  not  attack,  nor  let  his  friends  attack, 
until  the  enemy  was  in  his  hand.  You,  who 
know  what  longanimity  may  be  and  how  hard  a 
thing  to  come  at,  may  admire  him  for  this. 

Directly  the  Christians  were  over  the  brook 
Belus,  their  difficulties  were  upon   them.     The 


266  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  BK.i: 

way  was  through  a  pebbly  waste  of  beach  and 
salt-grass,  and  a  sea-scrub  of  grey  bushes.  A  mile 
to  their  left  the  rocks  began,  spurs  of  the  moun- 
tains;  the  shrubs  became  stunted  trees;  the 
rocks  climbed,  the  trees  with  them;  then  the 
forest  rose,  first  sparsely,  then  thick  and  dark; 
lastly,  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky  soared  the 
toothed  ridges,  grey,  scarred,  and  splintry. 
Scurrying  horsemen,  on  beasts  incredibly  sure 
of  foot,  hung  on  the  edge  of  these  fastnesses, 
yelling,  whirling  their  lances,  white-clad,  swarthy 
and  hoarse.  They  came  by  fifties,  or  in  clouds 
they  came,  swept  by  like  a  windstorm,  and  were 
gone.  And  in  each  shrill  and  terrible  rush  some 
stragglers,  be  sure,  would  call  upon  Christ  in  vain,  j 
Or  sometimes  great  companies  of  Mamelukes  in  1 
mail,  massed  companies  in  blocks  of  men,  stood 
covered  by  their  bowmen  as  if  offering  battle.  If 
the  Christians  opened  out  to  attack  (as  at  first 
they  did),  or  some  party  of  knights,  more  adven- 
turous than  another,  pricked  forward  at  a  canter, 
and  hastening  as  their  hearts  grew  high  cried  at 
last  the  charge,  *  Passavant !  *  or  '  Sauve  Anjou ! ' 
out  of  the  wood  with  cries  would  come  the  black 
cavalry,  sweep  up  behind  our  men,  and  cut  off 
one  company  or  another.  And  if  so  by  day,  by 
night  there  was  no  long  peace  under  the  large 
stars.  Desperate  stampedes,  the  scattering  of 
camp-fires,  trampling,  grunting  in  the  dark; 
ghostly  horsemen  looming  and  vanishing  sud- 
denly in  the  half-light;  and  in  the  lull  the  queru- 
lous howling  of  wild  beasts  disappointed. 

To  their  full  days  succeeded  their  empty  days, 
when  they  were  alone  with  the  desert  and  the  sun. 


CH.V  THE   FORBIDDING  267 

Then  hunger  and  thirst  assailed  them,  serpents 
bit  them,  stinging  flies  drove  men  mad,  the  sand 
burnt  their  feet  through  steel  and  leather.  They 
lost  more  this  way  than  by  Saracen  ambush,  and 
lost  more  hearts  than  men.  This  was  a  time  for 
private  grudges  to  awaken.  Hatred  feeds  on  such 
dry  meat.  In  the  empty  watches  of  the  night,  in 
the  blistering  daytime,  under  the  white  sky  or  the 
deep  violet,  Des  Barres  remembered  his  struck  face, 
De  Gurdun  his  stolen  wife,  Saint-Pol  his  dead 
brother,and  theDukeof  Burgundyhisfortypounds. 

It  must  be  said  that  Richard  stretched  his 
authority  as  far  as  it  would  go.  His  direct  aim 
was  to  reach  Joppa  with  speed,  and  thence  to 
strike  inward  over  the  hills  to  the  Holy  City.  It 
was  against  sense  to  attack  this  enemy  hugging 
the  woody  heights;  but  as  time  went  on,  as  he 
lost  men  and  heard  the  muttering  of  those  who 
saw  them  go,  he  understood  that  if  he  could  tempt 
Saladin  into  close  battle  upon  chosen  ground  it 
would  be  well.  This  was  a  difficult  matter,  for 
though  (as  he  knew)  the  Saracen  army  followed 
him  in  the  woods,  it  kept  well  out  of  sight.  None 
but  the  light  horsemen  showed  near  at  hand,  and 
their  tactics  were  to  sting  like  wasps,  and  fly  — 
never  to  join  battle.  At  last,  in  the  swamp  of 
Arsuf,  where  the  Dead  River  splays  over  broad 
marshes,  and  goes  in  a  swamp  to  the  sea-edge,  he 
saw  his  chance,  and  took  it. 

Here  a  feint,  carried  out  by  Gaston  of  Beam 
with  great  spirit,  brought  Saladin  into  the  open. 
The  Christians  continued  their  toilsome  march, 
Saladin  attacked  their  rear ;  and  for  six  hours  or 
more  that  rearguard  fought  a  retreating  battle, 


268  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

meeting  shock  after  shock,  striking  no  blow,  while 
the  centre  and  the  van  watched  them.  This  was 
one  of  the  tensest  days  of  Richard's  iron  rule. 
De  Charron,  commanding  the  rear,  sent  imploring 
messengers  —  '  For  Christ's  love  let  us  charge,  sire, 
we  can  bear  no  more  of  this.'     He  was  answered, 

*  Let  them  come  on  again.'  Then  Saint-Pol,  seeing 
one  of  the  chances  of  his  life,  was  in  open  mutiny 
of  the  tongue.  *  Are  we  sheep,  then  ? '  Thus 
he  to  the  French  with  Burgundy.  *  Is  the  King 
a  drover  of  cattle.?  Where  is  the  chivalry  of 
France.?'  Even  Richard's  friends  grew  fretful: 
Champagne  tossing  his  head,  muttering  curses  to 
himself,  Gaston  of  Beam  pale  and  serious,  chew- 
ing his  beard.  Two  more  wild  assaults  the  rear- 
guard took  stiffly,  at  the  third  they  broke  in  two 
places,  but  repelled  the  Turks.  Richard,  watching 
like  a  hawk,  saw  his  opportunity.  He  sent  down 
a  message  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  to  Saint-Pol 
and  De  Charron  — '  Hold  them  yet  once  more ;  at 
six  blasts  of  my  trumpet,  charge  '  The  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  block  though  he  was,  was  prepared  to 
obey.  About  him  came  buzzing  Saint-Pol  and 
his  friends :  '  Impossible,  my  lord  Duke,  we  can- 
not keep  in  our  men.  Attack,  attack.'  Saladin 
was  then  coming  on,  one  of  his  thunderous 
charges.  '  God  strike  blind  those  French  mules  ! ' 
cried  Richard.  '  They  are  out ! '  This  was  true : 
from  left  to  centre  the  Christian  bowmen  were 
out,  the  knights  pricking  after  them  to  the 
charge.      Richard  cursed  them  from  his  heart. 

*  Sound  trumpets  ! '  he  shouted,  *  we  must  let  go.' 
They  sounded  ;  they  ran  forward :  the  English 
first,  then  the  Normans,  Poictevins,  men  of  Anjou 


CH.V  THE   FORBIDDING  269 

and  Pisa,  black  Genoese  —  but  the  left  had  moved 
before  them,  and  made  doubtful  Richard's  echelon. 
They  knelt,  pulled  bowstrings  to  the  ear.  The 
sky  grew  dun  as  the  long  shafts  flew ;  the  oncom- 
ing tide  of  men  flickered  and  tossed  like  a  broken 
sea,  and  the  Soldan's  green  banner  dipped  like  a 
reed  in  it.  A  second  time  the  blast  of  arrows, 
like  a  gust  of  death,  smote  them  flat :  Richard's 
voice  rang  sharply  out  — '  Passavant,  chivalers ! 
Sauve  Anjou  ! '  —  and  a  young  Poictevin  knight, 
stooping  low  in  his  saddle,  went  rocking  down 
the  line  with  words  for  Henry  of  Champagne, 
who  ruled  the  centre.  The  archers  ran  back 
and  crouched ;  Richard  and  his  chivalry  on  the 
extreme  right  moved  out,  the  next  company 
after  him,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  company 
following  company,  until,  in  echelon,  all  the  long 
fluttering  array  galloped  over  the  marsh,  over- 
lapped and  enfolded  the  Saracen  hordes  in  their 
bright  embrace.  A  frenzied  cry  from  some  emir 
by  the  standard  gave  notice  of  the  danger ;  the 
bodyguard  about  the  Soldan  were  seen  urging  him. 
Saladin  gave  some  hasty  order  as  he  rode  off; 
Richard  saw  it,  and  tasted  the  bitterness  of  folly. 
*  By  God,  we  shall  lose  him  —  oh,  bemused  hog 
of  Burgundy!'  He  sent  a  man  flying  to  the 
Duke;  but  it  was  too  late.  Saladin  gained  the 
woods,  and  with  him  his  bodyguard,  the  flower 
of  his  state. 

The  Mamelukes  also  turned  to  fly.  To  right, 
to  left,  the  mad  horsemen  drove  —  the  black,  the 
plumed,  the  Nubians  in  yellow,  the  Turcomans 
with  spotted  skins  over  their  mail,  the  men  of 
Syria,  knighthood  of  Egypt  —  trampling  under- 


270  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

foot  their  own  kind.  But  the  steel  chain  held 
most  of  these ;  the  knights  had  bound  horse  to 
horse :  wide  on  the  left  the  Templars  and  Hos- 
pitallers fanned  out  and  swept  all  stragglers  into 
the  net.  So  within  hoops  of  iron,  as  it  were, 
the  slaughter  began,  silent,  breathless,  wet  work. 
Here  James  d'Avesnes  was  killed,  a  good  knight ; 
and  here  Des  Barres  went  down  in  a  huddle  of 
black  men,  and  had  infallibly  perished  but  that 
King  Richard  himself  with  his  axe  dug  him  out. 
'  Your  pardon,  King  of  the  World,'  sobbed  Des 
Barres,  kissing  his  enemy's  knee.  *  Pooh,'  says 
Richard,  *  we  are  all  kings  here.  Take  my  sword 
and  get  crowns';  and  so  he  turned  again  into 
battle,  and  Des  Barres  pressed  after  him.  That 
was  the  beginning  of  a  firm  friendship  between 
the  two.  Des  Barres  eschewed  the  counsels  of 
Saint- Pol  from  that  day. 

But  there  was  treachery  still  awake  and  about. 
When  the  rout  was  begun  Richard  reined  up  for 
a  minute,  to  breathe  his  horse  and  watch  the  way 
of  the  field.  He  sat  apart  from  his  friends,  seeing 
the  lines  ride  by.  All  in  a  moment  inexplicably, 
as  when  in  a  race  of  the  tide  comes  a  sudden 
thwart  gust  of  wind  and  changes  the  face  of  the 
day,  there  was  a  scurry,  a  babble  of  voices,  the 
stampede  of  men  fighting  to  kill :  the  Turks  with 
Christians  on  their  backs  came  trampling,  strug- 
gling together.  A  sword  glinted  close  to  Rich- 
ard—  *  Death  to  the  Angevin  devil ! '  he  heard, 
and  turning  received  in  mid  shield  De  Gurdun's 
sword.  At  the  same  moment  a  knight  ran  full 
tilt  into  the  assailant,  knocked  him  off  his  horse, 
and  himself   reeled,  powerless   to  strike.     This 


CH.v  THE   FORBIDDING  271 

was  Des  Barres,  paying  his  debts.  The  King 
smiled  grimly  to  see  the  wholesome  treachery,  and 
Gurdun's  dismay  at  it.  '  Gilles,  Gilles,'  says  he, 
*be  sure  you  get  me  alone  in  the  world  when 
next  you  strike  at  my  back.  Now  get  you  up, 
Norman,  and  fight  a  flying  enemy,  if  you  please. 
I  will  await  your  return.'  De  Gurdun  saluted,  but 
avoided  his  lord's  face,  and  rode  after  the  Turks. 
Des  Barres  stood,  deep-breathing,  by  the  King. 

*  Will  he  come  back,  sire  ? '  asked  the  French 
knight. 

'  Not  he,'  said  Richard ;  *  he  is  ashamed  of  him- 
self.' He  added,  '  That  is  a  very  honest  man,  to 
whom  I  have  done  a  wrong.  But  listen  to  this, 
Des  Barres ;  if  I  had  not  wronged  him,  I  was  so 
placed  that  I  should  have  injured  a  most  holy 
innocent  soul.  Let  be.  I  shall  meet  De  Gurdun 
again.     He  may  have  me  yet  if  he  do  not  tire.' 

He  had  been  speaking  as  if  to  himself  so  far, 
but  now  turned  his  hawk-eyes  upon  Des  Barres. 

*  Tell  me  now,'  he  said,  *  who  gave  the  order  to 
the  rear  to  charge,  against  my  order  ? ' 

*  Sire,'  replied  Des  Barres,  '  it  was  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy.' 

'You   do   not   understand   me,'  said  Richard. 

*  It  came  through  the  Duke  of  Burgundy's  wind- 
pipe.    But  who  put  it  into  his  thick  head  ? ' 

Des  Barres  looked  troubled.  '  Ah,  sire,  must  I 
answer  you  ? ' 

Considering  him,  King  Richard  said,  '  No,  Des 
Barres,  you  need  not.  For  now  I  know  who  it 
was.  Well,  he  has  lost  me  my  game,  and  won  a 
part  of  his,  I  doubt.'  Then  he  rode  off,  bidding 
Des  Barres  sound  the  recall. 


272  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

*  Of  the  pagans  that  day,'  writes  Milo  by  hearsay, 
'  we  made  hecatombs  two  score  five :  yet  the  King 
my  master  took  no  pleasure  of  that,  as  I  gather, 
deeming  that  he  should  have  had  Saladin's  head  in 
a  bag.  Also  we  gained  a  clear  road  to  Joppa.'  So 
they  did ;  but  Joppa  was  a  heap  of  stones. 

They  held  a  great  council  there.  Richard  put 
out  his  views.  There  were  two  things  to  be  done : 
repair  Joppa  and  march  at  once  on  Jerusalem, 
there  to  find  and  have  again  at  Saladin ;  or  pursue 
the  coast  road  to  Ascalon  and  raise  the  siege  of 
that  city.  '  I,  my  lords,  am  for  Ascalon,'  Richard 
said.  *  It  is  the  key  of  Egypt.  While  the  Soldan 
holds  us  cooped  up  in  Ascalon  he  can  get  his 
pack-mules  through.  If  we  relieve  it,  after  the 
battery  we  have  done  him  we  can  hold  Jerusalem 
at  our  whim.  What  do  you  say  to  this,  Duke  of 
Burgundy  ? ' 

In  the  natural  order  of  things  the  Duke  would 
have  said  nothing.  But  he  had  been  filled  to  the 
neck  by  Saint-Pol.  Richard  being  for  Ascalon, 
the  key  of  Egypt,  the  Duke  declared  himself  for 
Jerusalem,  '  the  key,'  as  he  rather  flatly  said,  '  of 
the  world.'  To  this  Richard  contented  himself 
with  replying,  that  a  key  was  little  worth  unless 
you  could  open  the  door  with  it.  All  the  French 
stood  by  their  leader,  except  Des  Barres.  He, 
with  Richard's  party,  leaned  to  the  King's  side. 
But  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  would  not  budge,  sat 
like  a  lump.  He  would  not  go  to  Ascalon,  and 
none  of  his  battle  should  go.  Richard  cursed  all 
Frenchmen,  but  gave  in.  The  truth  was,  he  dared 
not  leave  Saint- Pol  behind  him. 


CH.v  THE   FORBIDDING  273 

They  repaired  the  walls  and  towers  of  Joppa, 
garrisoned  the  place.  Then  late  in  the  autumn 
(truthfully,  too  late)  they  struck  inland  over  a 
rolling  grass  country  towards  Blanchegarde,  a 
white  castle  on  a  green  hill.  Moving  slowly  and 
cautiously,  they  pushed  on  to  Ramleh,  thence  to 
Betenoble,  which  is  actually  within  two  days' 
march  of  Jerusalem.  The  month  was  October, 
mellow  autumn  weather.  King  Richard,  moved 
by  the  sacred  influences,  the  level  peace  of  the  fair 
land,  filled  day  and  night  with  the  thought  that  he 
was  on  the  threshold  of  that  soil  which  bore  the 
very  footmarks  of  our  blessed  Saviour — King 
Richard,  I  say,  was  in  great  heart.  He  had  been 
against  the  enterprise  thus  to  do ;  he  would  have 
approached  from  Ascalon ;  the  enterprise  was  folly. 
But  it  was  glorious  folly,  for  which  a  man  might 
well  die.  He  was  ready  to  die,  though  he  hoped 
and  believed  that  he  should  not.  Saladin,  once 
bitten,  would  be  shy :  he  had  been  badly  bitten  at 
Arsuf.  Then  came  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais  with 
Burgundy  to  his  tent  —  Saint-Pol  stayed  behind 
—  with  speeches,  saying  that  the  winter  season 
was  at  hand ;  that  it  would  be  more  prudent  to 
withdraw  to  Joppa,  or  even  to  go  down  to  Ascalon. 
Ascalon  needed  succours,  it  seemed.  Richard's 
heart  stood  still  at  this  treachery ;  then  he  blazed 
out  in  fury.     *  Are  we  hare  or  hounds,  by  heaven  ? 

Do  you  presume ?'     He  mastered  himself. 

'  What  part,  pray,  does  Almighty  God  take  in 
these  pastimes  of  yours } ' 

The  Duke  of  Burgundy  looked  heavily  at  the 
Bishop.  The  Bishop  said,  *Sire,  Ascalon  is 
besieged.' 


J  74  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

Said  Richard,  *  You  old  fool,  do  you  not  know 
the  Soldan  better  than  that  ?  Or  do  you  put  him 
on  a  parity  with  this  Duke  ?  It  was  under  siege 
three  weeks  ago,  as  you  remember  perfectly  well.' 

The  Duke  still  looked  at  the  Bishop.     Driven 
again  to  say  something,  the  latter  began  —  *  Sire, 
your  words   are   injurious;    but    I    have  spoken    | 
advisedly.     The  Count  of  Saint- Pol ' 

*  Ah,'  said  Richard,  '  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol  ? 
Now  I  begin  to  understand  you.  Please  to  fetch 
in  your  Count  of  Saint-Pol.' 

Saint-Pol  was  sent  for,  and  he  came,  darkly 
smiling,  respectful,  but  aware.    King  Richard  held 
his  voice,  but  not  his  hand,  on  the  curb.     The    j 
hand  shook  a  little.  1 

*  Saint- Pol,'  he  said,  *  the  Duke  of  Burgundy 
refers  me  to  the  Bishop,  the  Bishop  to  you.  This 
seems  the  order  of  command  in  King  Philip's  host. 
Between  the  three  of  you  I  conceive  to  lie  the 
honour  of  France.  Now  observe  me.  Three  weeks 
ago  I  was  for  Ascalon,  and  you  for  Jerusalem.  Now 
that  I  have  brought  you  within  two  days  of  your 
desire  —  two  days,  observe  —  you  are  for  Ascalon, 
and  I  for  Jerusalem.  What  is  the  meaning  of 
this?' 

'  Sire,'  said  Saint- Pol,  reasonably,  *  it  means  that 
we  believe  the  Holy  City  impregnable  at  this 
season,  or  untenable;  and  Ascalon  still  preg- 
nable.' 

The  King  put  a  hand  to  the  table.  *  It  means 
nothing  of  the  sort,  man.  You  do  not  believe 
Ascalon  can  be  taken.  It  is  eight  days'  journey, 
and  was  in  straits  a  month  ago.  You  make  me 
ashamed  of  the  men  I  am  forced  to  lead.     What 


CH.  V  THE   FORBIDDING  275 

faith  have  you?  What  religion?  The  faith  of 
your  sick  master  the  Runagate  !  The  religion  of 
your  white  Marquess  of  Montferrat !  And  I  had 
taken  you  for  men.     Foh  !  you  are  rats/ 

This  was  dreadful  hearing:  Saint-Pol  bit  his 
lip,  but  made  no  other  answer. 

*  Sire,'  said  the  Bishop  with  heat, '  my  manhood 
has  never  been  reproached  before.  When  you 
carried  war  into  my  country  in  the  King  your 
father's  time,  I  met  you  in  a  hauberk  of  mail.  If 
I  met  your  Grace,  judge  if  I  should  fear  the  Sol- 
dan.  It  is  my  devout  hope  to  kiss  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  and  touch  the  Holy  Cross,  but  before 
I  die,  not  afterwards.' 

'  Pish  ! '  said  King  Richard. 

'Sire,'  Beauvais  ventured  again,  *our  master 
King  Philip  set  us  over  his  host  as  foster-fathers 
of  his  children.  We  dare  not  imperil  so  many 
lives  unadvisedly.' 

'  Unadvisedly ! '  the  King  thundered  at  him, 
red  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

*  I  withdraw  the  word,  sire,'  said  the  Bishop  in 
a  hurry ;  '  yet  it  is  the  mature  opinion  of  us  all 
that  we  should  seek  the  coast  for  winter-quarters, 
not  the  high  lands.  We  claim,  at  least,  the  duty 
of  choosing  for  those  whose  guardians  we  are.' 

If  Richard  had  been  himself  of  two  years  earlier 
he  would  have  killed  then  and  there  a  second 
Count  of  Saint- Pol ;  and  for  a  pulse  or  two  the 
young  man  saw  his  death  bright  in  the  King's 
eyes.  That  the  angry  man  commanded  himself 
is,  I  think,  to  his  credit.  As  it  was,  he  did  what 
he  had  certainly  never  done  before :  he  tried  to 
reason  with  the  Duke  of  Burgundy. 


276  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

*  Duke  of  Burgundy,'  he  said,  leaning  over  his 
chair  and  talking  low,  'you  are  no  Frenchman, 
and  the  more  of  a  man  on  that  account.  You 
and  I  have  had  our  differences.  I  have  blamed 
you,  and  you  me.  But  I  have  never  found  you  a 
laggard  when  there  was  work  for  the  sword  or 
adventure  for  the  heart.  Now,  of  all  adventures 
in  the  world  the  highest  in  which  a  man  may  en- 
gage is  here.  Across  those  hills  lies  the  city  of 
God,  of  which  (I  suppose)  no  soul  among  us  might, 
unhelped,  dare  hope  the  sight,  much  less  the  touch, 
least  of  all  the  redemption.  I  tell  you,  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  there  is  that  within  me  (not  my  own) 
which  will  lead  you  thither  with  profit,  glory  and 
honour.  Will  you  trust  me  ?  So  far  as  I  have 
gone  along  with  you  I  have  done  reasonably  well. 
Did  I  scatter  the  heathen  at  Arsuf  ?  No  thanks 
to  you,  Burgundy,  but  I  did.  Did  I  hold  a  safe 
course  to  Joppa.f*  Have  I  then  brought  you  so 
near,  and  myself  so  near,  for  nothing  at  all  ?  If  I 
have  been  a  fool  in  my  day,  I  am  not  a  fool  now. 
I  speak  what  I  know.  With  this  host  I  can  save 
the  city.  Without  the  best  of  it,  I  can  do  noth- 
ing. What  do  you  say,  my  lord  ?  Will  you  let 
Beauvais  take  his  Frenchmen  to  dishonour,  and 
you  and  your  Burgundians  play  for  honour  with 
me  ?  The  prize  is  great,  the  reward  sure,  here 
or  in  heaven.  What  do  you  say,  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy } ' 

His  voice  shook  by  now,  and  all  the  bystanders 
watched  without  breath  the  heavy,  brooding, 
mottled  man  over  against  him.  He,  faithful  to 
his  nature,  looked  at  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais.  But 
Beauvais  was  looking  at  his  ring. 


CH.v  THE  FORBIDDING  277 

*  What  do  you  say,  my  lord  ?  *  again  asked 
King  Richard. 

The  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  troubled :  he 
blinked,  looking  at  Saint-Pol.  But  Saint-Pol 
was  looking  at  the  tent-roof. 

*  Be  pleased  to  look  at  me,'  said  Richard ;  and 
the  man  did  look,  working  under  his  wrongs. 

'By  God,  Richard,'  said  the  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
'you  owe  me  forty  pound ! ' 

King  Richard  laughed  till  he  was  helpless. 

*  It  may  be,  it  may  well  be,'  he  gasped  between 
the  throes  of  his  mirth.  *  O  lump  of  clay !  O 
wonderful  half-man !  O  most  expressive  river- 
horse  1  You  shall  be  paid  and  sent  about  your 
business.  Archbishop,  be  pleased  to  pay  this  man 
his  bill.  I  will  content  you,  Burgundy,  with 
money;  but  I  will  be  damned  before  I  take  you 
to  Jerusalem.  My  lords,'  he  said,  altering  voice 
and  look  in  a  moment,  *  I  will  conduct  you  to  the 
ships.  Since  I  am  not  strong  enough  for  Jerusalem 
I  will  go  to  Ascalon.  But  you !  By  the  living 
God,  you  shall  go  back  to  France.'  He  dismissed 
them  all,  and  next  day  broke  up  his  camp. 

But  before  that,  very  early  in  the  morning, 
after  a  night  spent  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  he 
rode  out  with  Gaston  and  Des  Barres  to  a  hill 
which  they  call  Montjoy,  because  from  there  the 
pilgrims,  tending  south,  see  first  among  the  folded 
hills  Jerusalem  itself  lie  like  a  dove  in  a  nest. 
The  moon  was  low  and  cold,  the  sun  not  up ; 
but  the  heavens  and  earth  were  full  of  shadowless 
light;  every  hill-top,  every  black  rock  upon  it 
stood  sharply  cut  out,  as  with  a  knife.  King 
Richard  rode  silently,  his  face  covered  in  a  great 


278  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

hood;  neither  man  with  him  dared  speak,  but 
kept  the  distance  due.  So  they  skirted  hill  after 
hill,  wound  in  and  out  of  the  deep  valleys,  until 
at  last  Gaston  pricked  forward  and  touched 
his  master  on  the  arm.  Richard  started,  not 
turned. 

*  Montjoy,  dear  master,'  said  Gaston. 

There  before  them,  as  out  of  a  cup,  rose  a  dark 
conical  hill  with  streamers  of  white  light  behind 
and,  as  might  be,  leaping  from  it.  '  The  light 
shines  on  Jerusalem,'  said  Gaston :  Richard,  look- 
ing up  at  the  glory,  uncovered  his  head.  Sharp 
against  the  light  stood  a  single  man  on  Montjoy, 
who  faced  the  full  sun.  They  who  saw  him  there 
were  still  deep  in  shade. 

*  Gaston  and  Des  Barres,'  said  King  Richard, 
when  they  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  wet  hill, 
*  stay  you  here.     Let  me  go  on  alone.' 

Gaston  demurred.  *  The  hill  is  manned,  sire. 
Beware  an  ambush.  You  have  enemies  close  by.' 
He  hinted  at  Saint-Pol. 

*I  have  only  one  enemy  that  I  fear,  Gaston,' 
said  the  King;  *and  he  rides  my  horse.  Do  as  I 
tell  you.' 

They  obeyed;  so  he  went  under  their  anxious 
eyes.  Slowly  he  toiled  up  the  bridle-path  which 
the  feet  of  many  pilgrims  had  worn  into  the  turf ; 
slowly  they  saw  him  dip  from  the  head  down- 
wards into  the  splendour  of  the  dawn.  But  when 
horse  and  man  were  bathed  full  in  light,  those 
two  below  touched  each  other  and  held  hands ; 
for  they  saw  him  hoist  his  great  shield  from  his 
shoulder  and  hold  it  before  his  face.  So  as  he 
stayed,  screening  himself  from  what  he  sought 


CH.v  THE  FORBIDDING  279 

but  dared  not  touch,  the  soHtary  watcher  turned, 
and  came  near  him,  and  spoke. 

*  Why  does  the  great  King  cover  his  face  ? ' 
said  Gilles  de  Gurdun ;  '  and  why  does  he,  of  his 
own  will,  keep  the  light  of  God  from  him  ?  Is 
he  at  the  edge  of  his  dominion?  Hath  he 
touched  the  limit  of  his  power?  Then  I  am 
stronger  than  my  Duke;  for  I  see  the  towers 
shine  in  the  sun ;  I  see  the  Mount  of  Olives,  Cal- 
vary also,  and  the  holy  temple  of  God.  I  see  the 
Church  of  the  Sepulchre,  the  battlements  and 
great  gates  of  the  city.  Look,  my  lord  King. 
See  that  which  you  desire,  that  you  may  take  it. 
Fulke  of  Anjou  was  King  of  Jerusalem;  and 
shall  not  Richard  be  a  king  ?  What  is  lacking  ? 
What  is  amiss?  For  kings  may  desire  that 
which  they  see,  and  take  that  which  they  desire, 
though  other  men  go  cursing  and  naked.' 

Said  King  Richard  from  behind  his  shield,  *  Is 
that  you,  Gurdun,  my  enemy  ? ' 

*  I  am  that  man,'  said  Gilles,  *  and  bolder  than 
you  are,  since  I  can  look  unoffended  upon  the 
place  where  our  Lord  God  suffered  as  a  man. 
Suffering,  it   seems,  maketh  me   sib  with    God.' 

*  I  will  never  look  upon  the  city,  though  I  have 
risked  all  for  the  sake  of  it,'  said  Richard ;  *  for 
now  I  know  that  it  was  no  design  of  God's  to 
allow  me  to  take  it,  although  it  was  certainly  His 
desire  that  I  should  come  into  this  country. 
Perhaps  He  thought  me  other  than  now  I  am. 
I  will  not  look.  For  if  I  look  upon  it  I  shall  lead 
my  men  up  against  it ;  and  then  they  will  be  cut 
off  and  destroyed,  since  we  are  too  few.  I  will 
never  see  what  I  cannot  save.' 


28o  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

Said  Gilles  between  his  teeth,  'You  robber,  you 
have  seen  my  wife,  and  cannot  save  her  now  * 
Richard  laughed  softly. 

*  God  bless  her,'  he  said,  '  she  is  my  true  wife, 
and  will  be  saved  sure  enough.  Yet  I  will  tell 
you  this,  Gurdun.  If  she  was  not  mine  she 
should  be  yours ;  and  what  is  more,  she  may  be 
so  yet.' 

'  You  speak  idly,'  said  Gurdun,  *of  things  which 
no  man  knows.' 

*Ah,'  said  the  King,  'but  I  do  know  them. 
Leave  me:  I  wish  to  pray.' 

Gilles  moved  off,  and  sat  himself  on  the  edge 
of  the  hill  looking  towards  Jerusalem.  If  Richard 
prayed,  it  was  with  the  heart,  for  his  lips  never 
opened.  But  I  believe  that  his  heart,  in  this  hour 
of  clear  defeat,  was  turned  to  stone.  He  took  his 
joys  with  riot,  his  triumphs  calmly;  his  griefs  he 
shut  in  a  trap.  Such  a  nature  as  his,  I  suppose, 
respects  no  persons.  Whether  God  beat  him,  or 
his  enemy,  he  would  take  it  the  same  way.  All 
that  Gilles  heard  him  say  aloud  was  this :  '  What 
I  have  done  I  have  done :  deliver  us  from  evil.* 
He  bade  no  farewell  to  his  hope,  he  asked  no 
greeting  for  his  altered  way.  When  he  had  turned 
his  back  upon  the  sacred  places  he  lowered  his 
shield ;  and  then  rode  down  the  hill  into  the  cold 
shadow  of  the  valley. 

If  he  was  changed,  or  if  his  soul,  naked  of 
hope,  was  stricken  bleak,  so  was  the  road  he  had 
to  go.  That  day  he  broke  up  his  camp  and  fared 
for  Ascalon  and  the  sea.  Stormy  weather  set  in, 
the  rains  overtook  him ;  he  was  quagged,  blighted 
with  fever,  lost  his  way,  his  men,  his  men's  love. 


CH.  V  THE   FORBIDDING  281 

Camp-sickness  came  and  spread  like  a  fungus. 
Men,  rotten  through  to  the  brain,  died  shrieking, 
and  as  they  shrieked  they  cursed  his  name.  One, 
a  Poictevin  named  Rolf,  whom  he  knew  well, 
turned  away  his  blackened  face  when  Richard 
came  to  visit  him. 

'  Ah,  Rolf,'  said  the  King,  *  dost  thou  turn  away 
from  me,  man  ?  * 

'  I  do  that,  by  our  Lord,'  said  Rolf,  *  since  by 
these  deeds  of  thine  my  wife  and  children  will 
starve,  or  she  become  a  whore.' 

*  As  God  lives,'  said  Richard,  *  I  will  see  to  it.' 

*  I  do  not  think  He  can  be  living  any  more,* 
said  Rolf,  '  if  He  lets  thee  live,  King  Richard.' 
Richard  went  away.  The  time  dragged,  the  rain 
fell  pitilessly,  without  end.  He  found  rivers  in 
floods,  fords  roaring  torrents,  all  ways  choked. 
At  every  turn  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  and  Saint- 
Pol  worked  against  him. 

Also  he  found  Ascalon  in  ruins,  but  grimly  set 
about  rebuilding  it.  This  took  him  all  the  winter, 
because  the  French  (judging,  perhaps,  that  they 
had  done  their  affair)  took  to  the  ships  and  sailed 
back  to  Acre.  There  they  heard,  what  came 
more  slowly  to  King  Richard,  strange  news  of 
the  Marquess  of  Montferrat,  and  terrible  news  of 
Jehane  Saint-Pol. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    CHAPTER    CALLED    CLYTEMNESTRA 

At  Acre,  by  the  time  September  was  set,  the  sun 
had  put  all  the  air  to  the  sword,  so  that  the  city 
lay  stifled,  stinking  in  its  own  vice ;  and  the  nights 
were  worse  than  the  days.  Then  was  the  great 
harvest  of  the  flies,  when  men  died  so  quickly  that 
there  was  no  time  to  bury  them.  So  also  mothers 
saw  their  children  flag  or  felt  their  force  grow  thin : 
one  or  another  swooned  suddenly  and  woke  no 
more;  or  a  woman  found  a  dead  child  at  the 
breast,  or  a  child  whimpered  to  find  his  mother 
so  cold.  At  this  time,  while  Jehane  lay  panting 
in  bed,  awake  hour  by  hour  and  fretting  over 
what  she  should  do  when  the  fountains  of  her  milk 
should  be  dry,  and  this  little  Fulke,  royal  glutton, 
crave  without  getting  of  her — she  heard  the 
women  set  there  to  fan  her  talking  to  each  other 
in  drowsy  murmurs,  believing  that  she  slept.  By 
now  she  knew  their  speech. 

Said  one  between  the  slow  passes  of  the  fans, 
'  Giafar  ibn  Mulk  hath  come  into  the  city  secretly.* 
And  the  other,  '  Then  we  have  a  thief  the  more.* 

'  Peace,'  said  the  first,  '  thou  grudger.  He  is 
one  of  my  lovers,  and  telleth  me  whatsoever  I 
seek  to  know.  He  is  come  in  from  Lebanon ;  so 
much,  and  more,  I  know  already.' 

*  What  ill  report  doth  he  bring  of  his  master  ?  * 

282 


CH.  VI  CLYTEMNESTRA  283 

asked  the  second,  a  lazy  girl,  whose  name  was 
Misra,  as  the  first  was  called  Fanoum. 

Fanoum  answered, '  Very  ill  report  of  the  Melek' 
—  that  was  King  Richard's  name  here  — '  but  it 
is  according  to  the  desires  of  the  Marquess/ 

*  Ohe ! '  said  Misra,  *  we  must  tell  this  sleeper. 
She  is  moon  of  the  Melek.' 

*Thou  art  a  fool  to  think  me  a  fool,'  said 
Fanoum.  '  Why,  then,  shall  I  be  one  to  turn  the 
horn  of  a  mad  cow,  to  pierce  my  own  thigh  ?  Let 
the  Franks  kill  each  other,  what  have  we  but 
gain  ?     They  are  dogs  alike.' 

Misra  said,  *  Hearken  thou,  O  Fanoum,  the 
Melek  is  no  dog.  Nay,  he  is  more  than  a  man. 
He  is  the  yellow-haired  King  of  the  West,  rid- 
ing a  white  horse,  who  was  foretold  by  various 
prophets,  that  he  should  come  up  against  the 
Sultan.     That  I  know.' 

'  Then  he  will  have  more  than  a  man's  death,** 
said  Fanoum.  *  The  Marquess  goeth  with  Giafar 
to  Lebanon,  to  see  the  Old  Man  of  Musse,  whom 
he  serveth.  The  Melek  must  die,  for  of  all  men 
living  or  dead  the  Marquess  hateth  him.' 

'  Oh,  King  of  Kings  ! '  said  Misra,  with  a  little 
sob,  *and  thou  wilt  stand  by,  thou  sorrowful, 
while  the  Marquess  kills  the  Melek ! ' 

Fanoum.  answered,  *  Certainly  I  will ;  for  any 
of  our  lord's  people  can  kill  the  Marquess ;  but 
it  needeth  the  guile  of  the  Old  Man  to  kill  the 
Melek.  Let  the  wolf  slay  the  lion  while  he  sleep- 
eth :  anon  cometh  the  shepherd  and  slayeth  the 
gorged  wolf.     That  is  good  sense.' 

'  Well,'  said  Misra,  *  it  may  be  so.  But  I  am 
sorry  for  his  favourite  here.     There  are  no  daugh- 


284  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

ters  of  AH  so  goodly  as  this  one.  The  Melek  is 
a  wise  lover  of  women/ 

*  Let  be  for  that,'  replied  Fanoum  comfortably; 
*  the  Old  Man  of  Musse  is  a  wiser.  He  will  come 
and  have  her,  and  we  do  well  enough  in  Leba- 
non.* 

They  would  have  said  more,  had  Jehane  needed 
any  more.  But  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  knew 
enough.  There  was  danger  brewing  for  King 
Richard,  whom  she,  faithless  wretch,  had  let  go 
without  her.  As  she  thought  of  the  leper,  of  her 
promise  to  the  Queen-Mother,  of  Richard  tower- 
ing but  to  fall,  her  heart  grew  cold  in  her  bosom, 
then  filled  with  fire  and  throbbed  as  if  to  burst. 
It  is  extraordinary,  however,  how  soon  she  saw 
her  way  clear,  and  on  how  small  a  knowledge. 
Who  this  Old  Man  might  be,  who  lived  on  Leba- 
non and  was  most  wise  in  the  matter  of  women, 
she  could  have  no  guess ;  but  she  was  quite  sure 
of  him,  was  certain  that  he  was  wise.  She  knew 
something  of  the  Marquess,  her  cousin.  Any  ally 
of  his  must  be  a  murdermonger.  A  wise  lover  of 
women,  the  Old  Man  of  Musse,  who  dwelt  on 
Lebanon !  Wiser  than  Richard  !  And  she  more 
goodly  than  the  daughters  of  Ali !  Who  were  the 
daughters  of  Ali  ?  Beautiful  women  ?  What  did 
it  matter  if  she  excelled  them  ?  God  knew  these 
things ;  but  Jehane  knew  that  she  must  go  to  mar- 
ket with  the  Old  Man  of  Musse.  So  much  she 
calmly  revolved  in  her  mind  as  she  lay  her  length, 
with  shut  eyes,  in  her  bed. 

With  the  first  cranny  of  light  she  had  herself 
dressed  by  her  sulky,  sleepy  women,  and  went 
abroad.     There  were  very  few  to  see  her,  none 


CH.  VI  CLYTEMNESTRA  285 

to  dare  her  any  harm,  so  well  as  she  was  known. 
Two  eunuchs  at  a  wicked  door  spat  as  she  passed ; 
she  saw  the  feet  of  a  murdered  man  sticking  out 
of  a  drain,  the  scurry  of  a  little  troop  of  rats. 
Mostly,  the  dogs  of  the  city  had  it  to  themselves. 
No  women  were  about,  but  here  and  there  a 
guarded  light  betrayed  sin  still  awake,  and  here 
and  there  a  bell,  calling  the  faithful  to  church, 
sounded  a  homely  note  of  peace.  The  morning 
was  desperately  close,  without  a  waft  of  air.  She 
found  the  Abbot  Milo  at  his  lodging,  in  the  act 
of  setting  off  to  mass  at  the  church  of  Saint 
Martha.  The  sight  of  her  wild  face  stopped 
him. 

'  No  time  to  lose,  my  child,*  he  said,  when  he 
had  heard  her.  *  We  must  go  to  the  Queen :  it 
is  due  to  her.  Saviour  of  mankind ! '  he  cried 
with  flacking  arms,  '  for  what  wast  Thou  content 
to  lay  down  Thy  life ! '  They  hurried  out  together 
just  as  the  sun  broke  upon  the  tiles  of  the  domed 
churches,  and  Acre  began  to  creep  out  of  bed. 

The  Queen  was  not  yet  risen,  but  sent  them 
word  that  she  would  receive  the  abbot,  '  but  on 
no  account  Madame  de  Saint- Pol.'  Jehane  pushed 
off  the  insult  just  as  she  pushed  her  hot  hair  from 
her  face.  She  had  no  thoughts  to  spare  for  her- 
self.    The  abbot  went  into  the  Queen's  house. 

Berengere  looked  very  drowned,  he  thought, 
in  her  great  bed.  One  saw  a  sharp  white  oval 
floating  in  the  black  clouds  which  were  her 
hair.  She  looked  younger  than  any  bride  could 
be,  childish,  a  child  ill  of  a  fever,  wilful,  queru- 
lous, miserable.  All  the  time  she  listened  to 
what    Milo   had   to   say  her   lips   twitched,   and 


286  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

her   fingers   plucked   gold    threads   out   of    the 
cherubim  on  the  coverlet. 

^Kill  the  King  of  England?  Kill  my  lord' 
Montferrat?  Eh,  they  cannot  kill  him  I  Oh, 
oh,  oh ! '  —  she  moaned  shudderingly  —  *  I  would 
that  they  could!  Then  perhaps  I  should  sleep 
o*  nights/  Her  strained  eyes  pierced  him  for 
an  answer.     What  answer  could  he  give? 

*  My  news  is  authentic,  Madame.  I  came  at 
once,  as  my  duty  was,  to  your  Grace,  as  to  the 

proper   person '     Here  she  sat  right  up  in 

her  bed,  wide-eyed,  all  alight. 

*  Yes,  yes,  I  am  the  proper  person.  I  will  do 
it,  if  no  other  can.  Virgin  Mary  I '  —  she  stretched 
her  arms  out,  like  one  crucified  —  *  Look  at  me. 
Am  I  worthy  of  this  ?  *  If  she  addressed  the 
Virgin  Mary  her  invitation  was  pointedly  to  the 
abbot,  a  less  prop^  spectator.  He  did  look, 
however,  and  pitied  her  deeply;  at  her  lips  dry 
with  hatred,  which  should  have  been  freshly 
kissed,  at  her  drawn  cheeks,  into  her  amazed 
young  heart:  eh,  God,  he  knew  her  loveworthy 
once,  and  now  most  pitiful.  He  had  nothing  to 
say ;  she  went  on  breathless,  gathering  speed. 

*  He  has  spurned  me  whom  he  chose.  He  has 
left  me  on  my  wedding  day.  I  have  never  seen 
him  alone  —  do  you  heed  me  ?  never,  never  once. 
Ah,  now,  he  has  chosen  for  his  minion:  let  her 
save  him  if  she  can.  What  have  I  to  do  with 
him?  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  king;  and  what 
is  he  to  me,  who  treats  me  so  ?  If  I  am  not  to 
be  mother  of  England,  I  am  still  daughter  of 
Navarre.  Let  him  die,  let  them  kill  him:  what 
else  can  serve  me  now  ? '    She  fell  back,  and 


CH.  VI  CLYTEMNESTRA  287 

lay  staring  up  at  him.  In  every  word  she  said 
there  was  sickening  justice:  what  could  Milo 
do?  In  his  private  mind  he  confirmed  a  sus- 
picion—  being  still  loyal  to  his  King  —  that 
one  and  the  same  thing  may  be  at  one  and  the 
same  time  all  black  and  all  white.  He  did  his 
best  to  put  this  strange  case. 

*  Madame,'  he  said,  '  I  cannot  excuse  our  lord 
the  King,  nor  will  I ;  but  I  can  defend  that  noble 
lady  whose  only  faults  are  her  beauty  and  strong 
heart'  Mentioning  Jehane's  beauty,  he  saw  the 
Queen  look  quickly  at  him,  her  first  intelligent 
look.  *Yes,  Madame,  her  beauty,  and  the  love 
she  has  been  taught  to  give  our  lord.  The  King 
married  her,  uncanonically,  it  is  true;  but  who 
was  she  to  hold  up  church  law  before  his  face  ? 
Well,  then  she,  by  her  own  pure  act,  caused  her- 
self to  be  put  away  by  the  King,  abjuring  thus 
his  kingly  seat.  Hey,  but  it  is  so,  that  by  her 
own  prayers,  her  proper  pleading,  her  proper 
tears,  she  worked  against  her  proper  honour, 
and  against  the  child  in  her  womb.  What  more 
could  she  do.?  What  more  could  any  wife,  any 
mother,  than  that.?  Ah,  say  that  you  hate  her 
without  stint,  would  you  have  her  die.?  Why, 
no !  for  what  pain  can  be  worse  than  to  live  as 
she  lives.?  My  lady,  she  prevailed  against  the 
King ;  but  she  could  not  prevail  against  her  own 
holy  nature  working  upon  the  King's  great  heart. 
No !  When  the  King  found  out  that  she  was  to 
be  mother  of  his  child,  he  loved  her  so  well  that, 
though  he  must  respect  her  prayers,  he  must  needs 
respect  her  person  also.  The  King  thought  within 
himself,  "  I  have  promised  Madame  de  Saint-Pol 


288  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

that  I  will  never  strive  with  her  in  love;  and  I 
will  not.  Now  must  I  promise  Almighty  God 
that,  in  her  life,  I  will  not  strive  so  at  all."  Alas, 
Madame,  and  alas!  Here  the  King  was  too 
strong  for  the  girl;  here  her  own  nobility  rose 
up  against  her.  Pity  her,  not  blame  her;  and 
for  the  King  —  I  dare  to  say  it  —  find  pity  as  well 
as  blame.  All  those  who  love  his  high  heart,  his 
crowned  head,  find  pity  for  him  in  theirs.  For 
many  there  are  who  do  better,  having  no  occasion 
to  do  as  ill ;  but  there  can  be  none  who  mean  I 
better,  for  none  have  such  great  motions.'  1 

Milo   might   have   spared   his    breath.      The    ^ 
Queen  had  heard  one  phrase  of  all  his  speech,  and 
during  the  rest  had  pondered  that.     When  he  had 
done,  she  said,  '  Fetch  me  in  this  lady.     I  would 
speak  with  her.' 

'  Breast  shall  touch  breast  here,'  said  Milo  to  j 
himself,  full  of  hope,  *  and  mouth  meet  mouth.  1 
Courage,  old  heart.' 

When   the   tall   girl   was   brought   in    Queen    j 
Berengere  did  not  look  at  her,  nor  make  any  re-    ^ 
sponse  to  her  deep  reverence ;  but  bade  her  fetch 
a  mirror  from  the  table.     In  this  she  looked  at 
herself  steadily  for  some  time,  smoothing  and  coil- 
ing back  her  hair,  arranging  her  neck-covering  so 
as  to  show  something  of  her  bosom,  and  so  on.    j 
She  sent  Jehane  for  boxes  of  unguent,  her  colour-    | 
boxes,  brush  for  the  eyebrows,  powder  for  the  face.    ] 
Finally  she  had  brought  to  her  a  little  crown  of    I 
diamonds,  and  set  it  in  her  hair.    After  patting  her 
head  and  turning  it  about  and  about,  she  put  the    ^ 
glass  down  and  made  a  long  survey  of  Jehane. 

'  They  do  well,'  she  said,  *  who  call  you  sulky 


CH.  VI  CLYTEMNESTRA  289 

you  have  a  sulky  mouth.  I  allow  your  shape; 
but  there  are  reasons  for  that.  You  are  very  tall ; 
you  have  a  long  throat  Green  eyes  are  my 
detestation  —  fie,  turn  them  from  me.  Your  hair 
is  wonderful,  and  your  skin.  I  suppose  women 
of  the  North  are  so  commonly.  Come  nearer. 
Jehane  obeying,  the  Queen  touched  her  neck 
then  her  cheek.     *  Show  me  your  teeth,'  she  said, 

*  They  are  strong  and  good,  but  much  larger  than 
mine.  Your  hands  are  big,  and  so  are  your  ears 
you  do  well  to  cover  them.  Let  me  see  your 
foot'  She  peeped  over  the  edge  of  the  bed 
Jehane  put  her  foot  out  *  It  is  not  so  large  as  I 
expected,'  said  the  Queen,  *  but  much  larger  than 
mine.'     Then  she  sighed  and  threw  herself  back. 

*  You  are  certainly  a  very  tall  girl.  And  twenty- 
three  years  old?  I  am  not  twenty  yet,  and  have 
had  fifty  lovers.  The  Abbot  of  Poictiers  said  you 
were  beautiful.     Do  you  think  yourself  so  ?  ' 

*  It  is  not  my  part  to  think  of  it,  Madame,' 
said  Jehane,  holding  herself  rather  stifily. 

*  You  mean  that  you  know  it  too  well,'  said 
Berengere.  *  I  suppose  it  is  true.  You  have  a 
fine  colour  and  a  fine  person  —  but  that  is  a 
woman's.  Now  look  at  me  carefully,  and  say 
how  you  find  me.  Put  your  hand  here,  and  here, 
and  here.  Touch  my  hair ;  look  well  at  my  eyes. 
My  hair  reaches  to  my  knees  when  I  stand  up, 
to  the  floor  when  I  sit  down.  I  am  a  king's 
daughter.     Do  you  not  think  me  beautiful } ' 

*  Yes,  Madame.     Oh,  Madame 1'    Jehane, 

trembling  before  her  visions,  could  hardly  stand 
still ;  but  the  Queen  (who  had  no  visions  now  the 
mirror  was  put  by)  went  plaining  on. 


290  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  9 

*When  I  was  in  my  father's  court  his  poets 
called  me  Frozen  Heart,  because  I  was  cold  in 
loving.  Messire  Bertran  de  Born  loved  me,  and 
so  did  my  cousin  the  Count  of  Provence,  and  the 
Count  of  Orange,  and  Raimbaut,  and  Gaucelm, 
and  Ebles  of  Ventadorn.  Now  I  have  found  one 
colder  than  ever  I  was,  and  I  am  burning.  Are 
you  a  great  lover  of  the  King  ? ' 

At  this  question,  put  so  quietly,  Jehane  grew 
grave.  It  took  her  above  her  sense  of  dangers, 
being  in  itself  a  dignity.  *  I  love  the  King  so 
well,  Queen  Berengere,'  she  said,  *  that  I  think  I 
shall  make  him  hate  me  in  time.' 

*  Folly,'  snapped  the  Queen,  *or  guile.  You 
would  spur  him.  Is  it  true  what  the  Abbot  Milo 
told  me .? ' 

*  I  know  not  what  he  has  told  you,'  said  Jehane ; 
*  but  it  is  true  that  I  have  not  dared  let  the  King 
love  me,  and  now  dare  least  of  all.' 

The  Queen  clenched  her  hands  and  teeth. 
*You  devil,'  she  said,  'how  I  hate  you.  You 
reject  what  I  long  for,  and  he  loathes  me  for  your 
sake.  You  a  creature  of  nought,  and  I  a  king's 
daughter.' 

From  the  nostrils  of  Jehane  the  breath  came 
fluttering  and  quick;  in  her  splendid  bosom 
stirred  a  storm  that,  if  she  had  chosen  to  let  it 
loose,  could  have  shrivelled  this  little  prickly  leaf : 
but  she  replied  nothing  to  the  Queen's  hatred. 
Instead,  with  eyes  fixed  in  vacancy,  and  one  hand 
upon  her  neck,  she  spoke  her  own  purpose  and 
lifted  the  talk  to  high  matters. 

*  I  touch  not  again  your  King  and  mine,  O 
Queen.     But  I  go  to  save  him.' 


1 


CH.  VI  CLYTEMNESTRA  291 

•Woman,*  said  Berengere,  *do  you  dare  tell 
me  this?  Are  my  miseries  nothing  to  you? 
Have  you  not  worked  woe  enough  ?  * 

Jehane  suddenly  threw  her  hair  back,  fell  upon 
her  knees,  lifted  her  chin.  *  Madame,  Madame, 
Madame!  I  must  save  him  if  I  die.  I  implore 
your  pardon  —  I  must  go ! ' 

*  Why,  what  can  you  do  against  Montferrat  ? ' 
The  Queen  shivered  a  little:  Jehane  looked 
fixedly  at  her,  solemn  as  a  dying  nun. 

'  You  say  that  I  am  handsome,'  she  said,  then 
stopped.  Then  in  a  very  low  voice  —  *Well,  I 
will  do  what  I  can.'  She  hung  her  golden 
head. 

The  Queen,  after  a  moment  of  shock,  laughed 
cruelly.  *  I  suppose  I  could  not  wish  you  any- 
thing worse  than  that.  I  hate  you  above  all 
people  in  the  world,  mother  of  a  bastard.  Oh,  it 
will  be  enough  punishment.  Go,  you  hot  snake ; 
leave  me.' 

Jehane  rose  to  her  feet,  bowed  her  head  and 
went  out.  Next  moment  the  Queen  must  have 
whipped  out  of  bed,  for  she  caught  her  before  she 
could  shut  the  door,  and  clung  to  her  neck,  sob- 
bing desperately.  '  O  God,  Jehane,  save  Richard  1 
Have  mercy  on  me,  I  am  most  wretched.'  Now 
the  other  seemed  to  be  queen. 

'  My  girl,'  said  Jehane,  '  I  will  do  what  I  prom- 
ised.' She  kissed  the  scorching  forehead,  and 
went  away  with  Milo  to  find  Giafar  ibn  Mulk. 

To  get  at  him  it  was  necessary  to  put  the  girl 
Fanoum  to  the  question.  This  was  done.  Giafar 
ibn  Mulk,  enticed  into  the  house,  proved  to  be  a 
young  man  of  prudence  and  resource.     He  could 


292  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

not,  he  said,  conduct  them  to  his  master,  because 
he  had  been  told  to  conduct  the  Marquess ;  but 
an  equally  sure  guide  could  be  found,  and  there 
were  no  objections  to  his  delaying  his  own  illus- 
trious convoy  for  a  week  or  more.  Further  than 
that  he  could  not  go,  nor  did  the  near  prospect  of 
death,  which  the  abbot  exhibited  to  him,  prove 
any  inducement  to  the  alteration  of  his  mind. 
'  Death  ? '  he  said,  when  the  implements  of  that 
were  before  him.  '  If  I  am  to  die,  I  am  to  die : 
not  twice  it  happens  to  a  man.  But  I  recommend 
to  these  priests  the  expediency  of  first  finding  El 
Safy.'  As  this  was  to  be  their  guide  up  Lebanon, 
those  priests  agreed.  El  Safy  also  agreed,  when 
they  had  him.  A  galley  was  got  ready  for  sea ; 
the  provisional  Grand  Master  of  the  Temple 
wrote  a  commendatory  letter  to  his  *  beloved 
friend  in  the  one  God,  Sinan,  Lord  of  the 
Assassins,  Vetus  de  Monte' ;  and  then,  in  two 
days'  time,  Milo  the  abbot,  Jehane  with  her  little 
Fulke,  a  few  w^omen,  and  El  Safy  (their  master  in 
the  affair),  left  Acre  for  Tortosa,  whence  they 
must  climb  on  mule-back  to  Lebanon. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   CHAPTER   OF  THE   SACRIFICE   ON   LEBANON;    ALSO 
CALLED  CASSANDRA 

From  the  haven  at  Acre  to  the  bill  of  Tortosa  is 
two  days'  sailing  with  a  fair  wind.  Thence,  climb- 
ing the  mountains,  you  reach  Musse  in  four  days 
more,  if  the  passes  are  open.  If  they  are  shut 
you  do  not  reach  it  at  all.  High  on  Lebanon, 
above  the  frozen  gorge  where  Orontes  and  Leon- 
tes,  rivers  of  Syria,  separate  in  their  courses; 
above  the  terrace  of  cedars,  above  Shurky  the 
clouded  mountain,  lies  a  deep  green  valley  senti- 
nelled on  all  sides  by  snow  peaks  and  by  the 
fortresses  upon  their  tops.  In  the  midst  of  that, 
among  cedars  and  lines  of  cypress  trees,  is  the 
white  palace  of  the  Lord  of  the  Assassins,  as  big 
as  a  town.  A  man  may  climb  from  pass  to  pass 
of  Lebanon  without  striking  upon  the  place ; 
sighting  it  from  some  dangerous  crag,  he  may 
yet  never  approach  it.  None  visit  the  Old  Man 
of  Musse  but  those  who  court  Death  in  one  of 
his  shapes ;  and  to  such  he  never  denies  it.  Daz- 
zling snow-curtains,  black  hanging-woods,  sheer 
walls  of  granite,  frame  it  in :  looking  up  on  all 
sides  you  see  the  soaring  pikes ;  and  deep  under 
a  coffer-lid  of  blue  it  lies,  greener  than  an  emerald, 
a  valley  of  easy  sleep.  There  in  the  great  cham- 
bers young  men  lie  dreaming  of  women,  and  sleek 

293 


294  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

boys  stand  about  the  doorways  with  cups  of  mad- 
ness held  close  to  their  breasts.  They  are  eaters 
and  drinkers  of  hemp,  these  people,  which  causes 
them  to  sleep  much  and  wake  up  mad.  Then, 
when  the  Old  Man  calls  one  or  another  and  says, 
Go  down  the  mountains  into  the  cities  of  the  sea- 
board, and  when  thou  seest  such-a-one,  kiss  him 
and  strike  deep — he  goes  out  then  and  there  with 
fixed  eyeballs,  and  never  turns  them  about  until 
he  finds  whom  he  seeks,  nor  ever  shuts  them 
until  his  work  is  done.  This  is  the  custom  of 
Musse  in  the  enclosed  valley  of  Lebanon. 

Thither  on  mules  from  Tortosa  came  El  Safy, 
leading  the  Abbot  Milo  and  Jehane,  and  brought 
them  easily  through  all  the  defiles  to  that  castle 
on  a  spur  which  is  called  Mont-Ferrand,  but  in 
the  language  of  the  Saracens,  Barin.  From  that 
height  they  looked  down  upon  the  domes  and 
gardens  of  Musse,  and  knew  that  half  their  work 
was  done. 

What  immediately  followed  was  due  to  the 
insistence  of  El  Safy,  who  said  that  if  Jehane  was 
not  suitably  attired  and  veiled  she  would  fail  of 
her  mission.     Jehane  did  not  like  this. 

'It  is  not  the  custom  of  our  women  to  be 
veiled.  El  Safy,'  she  said,  'except  at  the  hour 
when  they  are  to  be  married.' 

'  And  it  is  not  the  custom  of  our  men,'  replied 
the  Assassin, '  to  choose  unveiled  women.  And 
this  for  obvious  reasons.' 

'  What  are  your  reasons,  my  son  ? '  asked  the 
abbot. 

'  I  will  tell  you,'  said  El  Safy.  *  If  a  man 
should  come  to  our  master  with  a  veiled  woman< 


CH.  vn  CASSANDRA  295 

saying,  My  lord,  I  have  here  a  woman  faced  Hke 
the  moon,  and  more  meUing  than  the  peach  that 
drops  from  the  wall,  the  Old  Man  would  straight- 
way conceive  what  manner  of  beauty  this  was,  and 
picture  it  more  glorious  than  the  truth  could  ever 
be ;  and  then  the  reality  would  climb  up  to  meet 
his  imagining.  But  otherwise  if  he  saw  her  bare- 
faced before  him;  for  eyesight  is  destructive  to 
mind-sight  if  it  precede  it.  The  eye  must  be 
servant.  So  then  he,  dreaming  of  the  veiled 
treasure,  weds  her  and  finds  that  she  is  just  what 
was  predicted  of  her  by  the  merchant.  For 
women  and  other  delights,  as  we  understand  the 
affair,  are  according  to  our  zest;  and  our  zest 
is  a  thing  of  the  mind's  devising,  added  unto 
desire  as  the  edge  of  a  sword  is  superadded  to 
the  sword.  So  the  fair  woman  must  certainly  be 
veiled.' 

*  The  saying  hath  meat  in  it,'  said  the  abbot ; 
*but  here  is  no  question  of  merchants,  nor  of 
marriage,  pardieu.' 

'  If  there  is  no  question  of  marriage,  of  what  is 
there  question  in  this  company  ? '  asked  El  Safy. 
*  Let  me  tell  you  that  two  questions  only  concern 
the  Old  Man  of  Musse.' 

Jehane,  who  had  stood  pouting,  with  a  very 
high  head,  throughout  this  little  colloquy,  said 
nothing ;  but  now  she  allowed  El  Safy  his  way. 
So  she  was  dressed. 

They  put  on  her  a  purple  vest,  thickly  em- 
broidered with  gold  and  pearls,  underdrawers  of 
scarlet  silk,  and  gauze  trousers  (such  as  Eastern 
women  wear)  of  many  folds.  Her  hair  was 
plaited  and   braided   with   pearls,   a  broad   silk 


296  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  11 

girdle  tied  about  her  waist.  Over  all  was  put 
a  thick  white  veil,  heavily  fringed  with  gold. 
Round  her  ankles  they  put  anklets  of  gold, 
with  little  bells  on  them  which  tinkled  as  she 
walked ;  last,  scarlet  slippers.  They  would  have 
painted  her  face  and  eyebrows,  but  that  El  Safy 
decided  that  this  was  not  at  all  necessary.  When 
all  was  done  she  turned  to  one  of  her  women  and 
demanded  her  baby.  El  Safy,  to  Milo's  surprise, 
made  no  demur.  Then  they  put  her  in  a  gold 
cage  on  a  mule's  back,  and  so  let  her  down  by  a 
steep  path  into  the  region  of  birds  and  flowering 
trees.  There  was  very  little  conversation,  except 
when  the  abbot  hit  his  foot  against  a  rock.  In 
the  valley  they  passed  through  a  thick  cedar 
grove,  and  so  came  to  the  first  of  four  gates  of 
approach. 

Half  a  score  handsome  boys,  bare-legged  and 
in  very  short  white  tunics,  led  them  from  hall  to 
hall,  even  to  the  innermost,  where  the  Old  Man 
kept  his  state.  The  first  hall  was  of  cedar  painted 
red ;  the  second  was  of  green  wood,  with  a  foun- 
tain in  the  middle  ;  the  third  was  deep  blue,  and 
the  fourth  colour  of  fire.  But  the  next  hall, 
which  was  long  and  very  lofty,  was  white  like 
snow,  except  for  the  floor,  which  had  a  blood- 
red  carpet;  and  there,  on  a  white  throne,  sat 
the  Old  Man  of  Musse,  himself  as  blanched  as 
a  swan,  robed  all  in  white,  white-bearded;  and 
about  him  his  Assassins  as  colourless  as  he. 

The  ten  boys  knelt  down  and  crossed  their 
arms  upon  their  bosoms;  El  Safy  fell  flat  upon 
his  face,  and  crawling  so,  like  a  worm,  came  at 
length  to  the  steps  of  the  throne.     The  Old  Man 


CH.  vn  CASSANDRA  297 

let  him  lie  while  he  blinked  solemnly  before  him. 
Not  the  Pope  himself,  as  Milo  had  once  seen  him, 
hoar  with  sanctity,  looked  more  remotely,  more 
awfully  pure  than  this  king  of  murder,  snowy 
upon  his  blood-red  field.  What  gave  closer 
mystery  was  that  the  light  came  strange  and 
milky  through  agate  windows,  and  that  when 
the  Old  Man  spoke  it  was  in  a  dry,  whispering 
voice  which,  with  the  sound  of  a  murmur  in  the 
forest,  was  in  tune  with  the  silence  of  all  the  rest. 
El  Safy  stood  up,  and  was  rigid.  There  ensued 
a  passionless  flow  of  question  and  answer.  The 
Old  Man  murmured  to  the  roof,  scarcely  moving 
his  lips ;  El  Safy  answered  by  rote,  not  moving 
any  other  muscles  but  his  jaw's.  As  for  the 
Assassins,  they  stayed  squat  against  the  walls,  as 
if  they  had  been  dead  men,  buried  sitting. 

At  a  sign  from  El  Safy  the  abbot  with  veiled 
Jehane  came  down  the  hall,  and  stood  before  the 
white  spectre  on  his  throne.  Jehane  saw  that  this 
was  really  a  man.  There  was  a  faint  tinge  of  red 
at  his  nostrils,  his  eyes  were  yellowish  and  very 
bright,  his  nails  coloured  red.  The  shape  of  his 
head  was  that  of  an  old  bird.  She  judged  him 
bald  under  his  high  cap;  but  his  beard  came  below 
his  breast-bone.  When  he  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak  she  observed  that  his  teeth  were  the  whitest 
part  of  him,  and  his  lips  rather  grey.  He  did  not 
seem  to  look  at  her,  but  said  to  the  abbot,  *  Tell 
me  why  you  have  come  into  my  country,  being  a 
Frank  and  a  Christian  dog ;  and  why  you  have 
brought  with  you  this  fair  woman.' 

*  My  lord,'  said  the  abbot,  after  clearing  his 
throat,  *we  are  lovers  and  servants  of  the  great 


298  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

king  whom  you  call  the  Melek  Richard,  a  lion 
indeed  in  the  paths  of  the  Moslems,  who  makes 
bitter  war  upon  your  enemy  the  Soldan ;  and  in 
defence  of  him  we  are  come.  For  it  appears  that 
a  servant  of  your  lordship's,  called  Giafar  ibn  Mulk, 
is  now  in  Acre,  which  is  King  Richard's  good  town, 
conspiring  with  the  Marquess  the  death  of  our 
lord.' 

*  It  is  the  first  I  have  heard  of  it,'  said  the  Old 
Man.  *  He  was  sent  for  a  different  purpose,  but 
his  hand  is  otherwise  free.  What  else  have  you 
to  say  ? ' 

*  Why,  this,  my  lord,'  said  the  abbot,  *  that  our 
lord  the  King  has  too  many  enemies  not  declared, 
w^ho  compass  his  destruction  while  he  compasses 
their  soul's  health.  This  is  so  shameful  that  we 
think  it  no  time  for  the  King's  lovers  to  be  asleep. 
Therefore  I,  with  this  woman,  who,  of  all  persons 
living  in  the  world,  is  most  dear  to  him  (as  he 
to  her),  have  come  to  warn  your  lordship  of  the 
Marquess  his  abominable  design,  in  the  sure  hope 
that  your  lordship  will  lend  it  no  favour.  King 
Richard,  we  believe,  is  besieging  the  Holy  City, 
and  therefore  (no  doubt)  hath  the  countenance  of 
Almighty  God.  But  if  the  devil  (who  loves  the 
Marquess,  and  is  sure  to  have  him)  may  reckon 
your  lordship  also  upon  his  side,  we  doubt  that  he 
may  prevail.' 

*  And  do  you  also  think,'  asked  the  Old  Man, 
scarcely  audible,  *  That  the  Melek  Richard  will 
thank  you  for  these  precautions  of  yours  ?  * 

*  My  lord,'  said  Milo,  *  we  seek  not  his  thanks, 
nor  his  good  opinion,  but  his  safety. 

*  It  is  one  thing  to  seek  safety,'  said  the  Old 


GH.  vn  CASSANDRA  299 

Man,  '  but  another  thing  to  find  or  keep  it.  Get 
you  back  to  the  doorway.' 

So  they  did,  and  the  lord  of  the  place  sat  for  a 
long  time  in  a  stare,  not  moving  hand  or  foot. 
Now  it  happened  that  the  child  in  Jehane's  arm 
woke  up,  and  began  to  stretch  itself,  and  whimper, 
and  nozzle  about  for  food.  Jehane  tried  to  hush 
it  by  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  gently  on  one  foot. 
The  abbot,  horrified,  frowned  and  shook  his  head ; 
but  Jehane,  who  knew  but  one  lord  now  Richard 
was  away,  took  no  notice.  Presently  young  Fulke 
set  up  a  howl  which  sounded  piercing  in  that  still 
place.  Milo  began  to  say  his  prayers ;  but  no  one 
moved  except  Jehane,  whose  course,  to  her  own 
mind,  was  clear.  She  put  the  great  veil  back  over 
her  head,  and  bared  her  beauty;  she  unfastened 
the  purple  vest,  and  bared  her  bosom.  This  she 
gave  to  the  child's  searching  mouth.  The  free 
gesture,  the  bent  head,  the  unconscious  doing, 
made  the  act  as  lovely  as  the  person.  Fulke  mur- 
mured his  joy,  and  Jehane  looking  presently  up 
saw  the  Old  Man's  solemn  eyes  blinking  at  her. 
This  did  not  disconcert  her  very  much,  for  she 
thought,  '  If  he  is  correctly  reported  he  has  seen 
a  mother  before  now.' 

It  might  seem  that  he  had  or  had  not:  his 
action  reads  either  way.  After  three  minutes' 
blinking  he  sent  an  old  Assassin  (not  El  Safy) 
down  the  hall  to  the  door. 

'  Thus,'  he  reported,  '  saith  the  Old  Man  of 
Musse,  Lord  of  the  Assassins.  Tell  the  Sheik  of 
the  Nazarenes  that  the  Marquess  of  Montferrat 
shall  come  up  and  go  down,  and  after  that  come 
up  no  more.     Also,  let  the  Sheik  depart  in  peace 


300  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

and  with  all  speed,  lest  I  repent  and  put  him  sud- 
denly to  death.  As  for  the  fair  woman,  she  must 
remain  among  my  ladies,  and  become  my  dutiful 
wife,  as  a  ransom  price.' 

The  abbot,  as  one  thunderstruck,  raised  his 
hands  on  high.  '  O  sack  of  sin  ! '  he  groaned,  '  O 
dross  for  the  melting-pot !  O  unspeakable  sacri- 
fice ! '  But  Jehane,  gravely  smiling,  checked  him. 
'  Why,  Lord  Abbot,  is  any  sacrifice  too  great  for 
King  Richard  ? '  she  asked,  gently  reproving  him. 
'  Nay,  go,  my  father;  I  shall  do  very  well.  I  am 
not  at  all  afraid.  Now  do  what  I  shall  tell  you. 
Kiss  the  hand  of  my  lord  Richard  from  me  when 
you  see  him,  bidding  him  remember  the  vows  we 
made  to  each  other  on  the  day  at  Fontevrault 
when  he  took  up  the  Cross,  and  again  before  the 
lifted  Host  at  Cahors.  And  to  my  lady  Queen 
Berengere  say  this,  that  from  this  day  forth  I  am 
wife  of  a  man,  and  stand  not  between  her  bed  and 
the  King,  as  God  knows  I  have  never  meant  to 
stand.  Kiss  me  now,  my  father,  and  pray  dili- 
gently for  me.'  He  tells  us  that  he  did,  and 
records  the  daylong  ago  when  he  had  first  kissed 
the  poor  girl  in  the  chapel  of  the  Dark  Tower, 
the  day  when,  as  she  hoped,  she  had  taught  her 
great  lover  to  tread  upon  her  heart. 

At  this  time  a  great  black,  the  chief  of  the 
eunuchs,  came  and  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 
*  Whither  now,  friend  .f*'  said  Jehane.  He  pointed 
the  way,  being  a  deaf-mute.  '  Lead,'  said  she ;  *  I 
will  follow.'     And  so  she  did. 

She  turned  no  more  her  head,  nor  did  she  go 
with  it  lowered,  but  carried  it  cheerfully,  as  if  her 
business  was  good.     The  black  led  her  by  many 


CH.  vn  CASSANDRA  301 

winding  ways  to  a  garden  filled  with  orange-trees, 
and  across  this  to  a  bronze  door.  There  stood 
two  more  blacks  on  guard,  with  naked  swords  in 
their  hands.  The  eunuch  struck  twice  on  the 
lintel.  The  door  was  opened  from  within,  and 
they  entered.  An  old  lady  dressed  in  black  came 
to  meet  them;  to  her  the  eunuch  handed  Jehane, 
made  a  reverence,  and  retired.  They  shut  the 
bronze  doors.  What  more?  After  the  bath,  and 
putting  on  of  habits  more  sumptuous  than  she  had 
ever  heard  tell  of,  she  was  taken  by  slaves  into  the 
Hall  of  Felicity.  There,  among  the  heavy-eyed 
languid  women,  Jehane  sat  herself  staidly  down, 
and  suckled  her  child. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OF   THE    GOING-UP    AND    GOING-DOWN   OF  THE 
MARQUESS 

The  Marquess  of  Montferrat  travelled  splendidly 
from  Acre  to  Sidon  with  six  galleys  in  his  convoy. 
So  many,  indeed,  did  not  suffice  him;  for  at  Sidon 
he  took  off  his  favourite  wife  with  her  women, 
eunuchs  and  janissaries,  and  thus  with  twelve  ships 
came  to  Tripolis.  Thence  by  the  Aleppo  road  he 
went  to  Karak  of  the  Knights,  thence  again,  after 
a  rest  of  two  days,  he  started  —  he,  the  knights 
and  esquires  of  his  body  in  cloth  of  gold,  with 
scarlet  housings  for  the  mules,  litters  for  his 
womenkind;  with  his  poets,  his  jongleurs,  his 
priest, his  Turcopoles  and  favourites;  all  this  gaudy 
company,  for  the  great  ascent  of  Mont-Ferrand. 

His  mind  was  to  impress  the  Old  Man  of 
Musse,  but  it  fell  out  otherwise.  The  Old  Man 
was  not  easily  impressed,  because  he  was  so 
accustomed  to  impressing.  You  do  not  prophesy 
to  prophets,  or  shake  priests  with  miracles.  When 
he  reached  the  top  of  Mont-Ferrand  he  was  met 
by  a  grave  old  Sheik,  who  informed  him  quietly 
that  he  must  remain  there.  The  Marquess  was 
very  angry,  the  Sheik  very  grave.  The  Marquess 
stormed,  and  talked  of  armed  hosts.  *  Look  up, 
my  lord,'  said  the  Sheik.  The  mountain-ridges 
were  lined  with  bowmen ;  in  the  hanging-woods 

302 


CH.viii  THE    MARQUESS  GOES  OUT  303 

he  saw  the  gleam  of  spears ;  between  them  and 
the  sky,  on  all  sides  as  far  as  one  could  see,  gloomed 
the  frozen  peaks.  The  Marquess  felt  a  sinking. 
He  arose  chastened  on  the  morrow,  and  negotia- 
tions were  resumed  on  the  altered  footing.  Finally, 
he  begged  for  but  three  persons,  without  whose 
company  he  said  he  could  not  do.  He  must  have 
his  chaplain,  his  fool,  and  his  barber.  Impossible, 
the  Sheik  said ;  adding  that  if  they  were  so  neces- 
sary to  the  Marquess  he  might  '  for  the  present  * 
remain  with  them  at  Mont-Ferrand.  In  that 
case,  however,  he  would  not  see  the  Lord  of  the 
Assassins. 

'  But  that,  very  honourable  sir,'  said  the  Mar- 
quess, with  ill-concealed  impatience, '  is  the  simple 
object  of  my  journey.' 

*  So  it  was  reported,'  the  Sheik  observed.  '  It 
is  for  you  to  consider.  For  my  own  part  I  should 
say  that  these  persons  cannot  be  indispensable  for 
a  short  visit' 

'  I  can  give  his  lordship  a  week,'  said  the 
Marquess. 

'  My  master,'  replied  the  Sheik,  '  may  give  you 
an  hour,  but  considers  that  half  that  time  should 
be  ample.  To  be  sure,  there  is  the  waiting  for 
audience,  which  is  always  wearisome.' 

'  My  friend,'  the  Marquess  said,  opening  his 
eyes,  '  I  am  the  King-elect  of  Jerusalem.' 

*  I  know  nothing  of  such  things,'  replied  the 
Sheik.  '  I  think  we  had  better  go  down.'  Three 
only  went  down:  the  Sheik,  the  Marquess,  and 
Giafar  ibn  Mulk. 

When  at  last  they  were  in  the  garden-valley, 
and  better  still  h^rd  reached  the  third  of  the  halls 


304  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

of  degree,  they  were  met  by  the  chief  of  the 
eunuchs,  who  told  them  his  master  was  in  the 
harem,  and  could  not  be  disturbed.  The  Mar- 
quess, who  so  far  had  been  all  smiles  and  interest, 
was  now  greatly  annoyed ;  but  there  was  no  help 
for  that.  In  the  blue  court  he  must  needs  wait 
for  nearly  three  hours.  By  the  time  he  was 
ushered  into  the  milky  light  of  the  audience 
chamber  he  was  faint  with  rage  and  apprehen- 
sion ;  he  was  dazzled,  he  stumbled  over  the  blood- 
red  carpet,  arrived  fainting  at  the  throne.  There 
he  stayed,  tongue-cloven,  while  the  colourless  Lord 
of  Assassins  blinked  inscrutably  upon  him,  with 
eyes  so  narrow  that  he  could  not  tell  whether  he 
so  much  as  saw  him ;  and  the  adepts,  rigid  by  the 
tribune-wall,  stared  at  their  own  knees. 

*  What  do  you  need  of  me.  Marquess  of  Mont- 
ferrat  ? '  asked  the  old  hierarch  in  his  most  remote 
voice.  The  Marquess  gulped  some  dignity  into 
himself. 

'  Excellent  sir,'  he  said,  '  I  seek  the  amity  of 
one  king  to  another,  alliance  in  a  common  good 
cause,  the  giving  and  receiving  of  benefits,  and 
similar  courtesies.' 

These  propositions  were  written  down  on  tab- 
lets, and  carefully  scrutinized  by  the  Old  Man  of 
Musse,  who  said  at  last  — 

*  Let  us  take  these  considerations  in  order.  Of 
what  kings  do  you  propound  the  amity  ? ' 

*  Of  yourself,  sir,'  replied  the  Marquess,  *  and  of 
myself.' 

'  I  am  not  a  king,'  said  Sinan,  *  and  had  not 
heard  that  you  were  one  either.' 

*  I  am  King-elect  of  Jerusalem/  the  Marquess 


CH.  VIII  THE  MARQUESS  GOES  OUT  305 

replied  with  stiffness.  The  Old  Man  raised  his 
wrinkled  forehead. 

*  Well,'  he  said,  '  let  us  get  on.  What  is  your 
common  good  cause  ? ' 

*  Eh,  eh,'  said  the  Marquess,  brightening,  *  it  is 
the  cause  of  righteous  punishment.  I  strike  at 
your  enemy  the  Soldan  through  his  friend  King 
Richard.'     The  Old  Man  pondered  him. 

*  Do  you  strike,  Marquess  ? '  he  asked  at  length. 
*Sir,'   the    Marquess    made   haste   to   answer, 

'your  question  is  just.  It  so  happens  that  I  can- 
not strike  King  Richard  because  I  cannot  reach 
him.  I  admit  it :  I  am  quite  frank.  But  you  can 
strike  him,  I  believe.  In  so  doing,  let  me  observe, 
you  will  deal  a  mortal  blow  at  Saladin,  who  loves 
him,  and  makes  treaties  with  him  to  your  detri- 
ment and  the  scandal  of  Christendom.' 

*  Do  you  speak  of  the  scandal  of  Christendom  ?' 
asked  Sinan,  twinkling. 

'  Alas,  I  must,'  said  the  Marquess,  very 
mournful. 

*  The  cause  is  near  to  your  heart,  I  see.  Mar- 
quess.' 

'  It  is  in  it,'  replied  the  Marquess.  The  Old 
Man  considered  him  afresh ;  then  inquired  where 
the  Melek  might  be  found. 

The  Marquess  told  him.  *  We  believe  he  is  at 
Ascalon,  separate  from  the  Duke  of  Burgundy.' 

*  Giafar  ibn  Mulk  and  Cogia  Hassan,'  said  the 
Old  Man,  as  if  talking  in  his  sleep,  '  come  hither.' 
The  two  young  men  rose  from  the  wall  and  fell 
upon  their  faces  before  the  throne.  Their  master 
spoke  to  them  in  the  tone  of  one  ordering  a  meal. 

*  Return  with  the  Marquess  to  the  coast  by  the 


3o6  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

way  of  Emesa  and  Baalbek ;  and  when  you  are 
within  sight  of  Sidon,  strike.  One  of  you  will  be 
burned  alive.  I  think  it  will  be  Giafar.  Let  the 
other  return  speedily  with  a  token.  The  audience 
is  finished.' 

The  Old  Man  closed  his  eyes.  At  a  touch  from 
another  the  two  prostrate  Assassins  crept  up  and 
kissed  his  foot,  then  rose,  waiting  for  the  Mar- 
quess. He,  pale  as  death,  saw,  felt,  heard  nothing. 
At  another  sign  a  man  put  his  hand  on  either 
shoulder. 

*  Ha,  Jesus-God ! '  grunted  the  Marquess,  as  the 
sweat  dripped  off  him. 

*  Stop  bleating,  silly  sheep,  you  will  awaken  the 
Master,'  said  Giafar  in  a  quick  whisper.  They  led 
him  away,  and  the  Old  Man  slept  in  peace. 

The  Marquess  saw  nothing  of  his  people  at 
Mont-Ferrand,  for  (to  begin  with)  they  were  not 
there,  and  (secondly)  he  was  led  another  way.  By 
the  desolate  crag  of  Masyaf,  where  a  fortress,  hung 
(as  it  seems)  in  mid-air,  watches  the  valleys  like  a 
little  cloud;  through  fields  of  snow,  by  terraces 
cut  in  the  ice  where  the  sheer  rises  and  drops  a 
thousand  feet  either  way ;  so  to  Emesa,  a  moun-  | 
tain  village  huddled  in  perpetual  shadows;  thence  " 
down  to  Baalbek,  and  by  foaming  river-gorges 
into  the  sun  and  sight  of  the  dimpling  sea :  thus 
they  led  the  doomed  Italian.  He  by  this  time 
knew  the  end  was  coming,  and.  had  braced  himself 
to  meet  it  stolidly. 

The  towers  of  Sidon  rose  chastely  white  above 
the  violet ;  they  saw  the  golden  sands  rimmed 
with  foam;  they  saw  the  ships.     Going  down  a 


CH.vin  THE  MARQUESS  GOES  OUT  307 

lane,  luxuriant  with  flowers  and  scented  shrubs, 
where  steep  cactus  hedges  shut  out  the  furrowed 
fields  and  olive  gardens,  and  the  cicalas  made 
hissing  music,  Giafar  ibn  Mulk  broke  the  silence 
of  the  three  men. 

*  Is  it  time  ? '  he  asked  of  his  brother,  without 
turning  his  head. 

'  Not  yet,'  Cogia  replied.  The  Marquess  prayed 
vehemently,  but  with  shut  lips. 

They  reached  an  open  moor,  where  there  were 
rocks  covered  with  cistus  and  wild  vine.  Here 
the  air  was  very  sweet  and  pure,  the  sun  pleasant. 
The  Marquess's  ass  grew  frisky,  pricked  up  his 
ears  and  brayed.  Giafar  ibn  Mulk  edged  up 
close,  and  put  his  arm  round  the  Marquess's 
neck. 

*  The  signal  is  a  good  one,'  he  said.  *  Strike, 
Cogia.' 

Cogia  drove  his  knife  in  up  to  the  heft.  The 
Marquess  coughed.  Giafar  lifted  him  from  his 
ass,  quite  dead. 

'  Now,'  says  he,  *go  thou  back,  Cogia.  I  will 
stay  here.  For  so  the  Old  Man  plainly  de- 
sired.' 

*  I  think  with  you,'  said  Cogia.  *  Give  me  the 
token.'  So  they  cut  off  the  Marquess's  right 
hand,  and  Cogia,  after  shaking  it,  put  it  in  his 
vest.  When  he  was  well  upon  his  way  to  the 
mountain  road,  Giafar  sat  down  on  a  bank  of 
violets,  ate  some  bread  and  dates,  then  went  to 
sleep  in  the  sun.  So  afterwards  he  was  found  by 
a  picket  of  soldiers  from  Sidon,  who  also  found 
all  of  their  lord  but  his  right  hand.  They  took 
Giafar  ibn  Mulk  and  burned  him  alive. 


3o8  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

The  Old  Man  of  Musse  was  extremely  kind  to 
Jehane,  who  pleased  him  so  well  that  he  was 
seldom  out  of  her  company.  He  thought  Fulke 
a  fine  little  boy,  as  he  could  hardly  fail  to  be, 
owning  such  parents.  All  the  liberty  that  was 
possible  to  the  favourite  of  such  a  great  prince 
she  had.  One  day,  about  six  weeks  after  she  had 
first  come  into  the  valley,  he  sent  for  her.  When 
she  had  come  in  and  made  her  reverence  he  drew 
her  near  to  his  throne,  put  his  arm  round  her,  and 
kissed  her.  He  observed  with  satisfaction  that 
she  was  looking  very  well. 

*  My  child,'  he  said  kindly,  *  I  have  news  which 
I  am  sure  will  please  you.  Very  much  of  the 
Marquess  of  Montferrat  is  by  this  time  lying  dis- 
integrate in  a  vault* 

Jehane's  green  eyes  faltered  for  a  moment  as 
she  gazed  into  his  wise  old  face. 

*  Sir,'  she  asked,  by  habit,  *  is  this  true  ? ' 

'  It  is  quite  true,'  said  the  Old  Man.  '  In  proof 
of  it  regard  his  hand,  which  one  of  my  Assassins, 
the  survivor,  has  brought  me.'  He  drew  from 
his  bosom  a  pale  hand,  and  would  have  laid  it  in 
Jehane's  lap  if  she  had  let  him.  As  she  would 
not,  he  placed  it  beside  him  on  the  floor.  Pur- 
suing his  discourse,  he  said  — 

*  I  might  fairly  claim  my  reward  for  that.  And 
so  I  should  if  I  had  not  got  it  already.' 

Again  Jehane  pondered  him  gravely.  *  What 
reward  more  have  you,  sire  ? ' 

The  Old  Man,  smiling  very  wisely,  pressed  her 
waist.     Jehane  thought. 

'  Why,  what  will  you  do  with  me  now,  sire  ? ' 
she  inquired,    *  Will  you  kill  me  ?  ' 


CH.vni  THE  MARQUESS  GOES  OUT  309 

*  Can  you  ask  ? '  said  the  Old  Man.  Then  he 
went  on  more  seriously  to  say  that  he  supposed 
the  life  of  King  Richard  to  be  safe  for  the  imme- 
diate future,  but  that  he  foresaw  great  difficul- 
ties in  his  way  before  he  could  be  snug  at  home. 
*  The  Marquess  of  Montferrat  was  by  no  means 
his  only  enemy,'  he  told  her.  *  The  Melek  suffers, 
what  all  great  men  suffer,  from  the  envy  of  others 
who  are  too  obviously  fools  for  him  to  suppose 
them  human  creatures.  But  there  is  nothing  a 
fool  dislikes  so  much  as  to  behold  his  own  folly; 
and  as  your  Melek  is  a  looking-glass  for  these 
kind,  you  may  depend  upon  it  they  will  smudge 
him  if  they  can.  He  is  the  bravest  man  in  the 
world,  and  one  of  the  best  rulers ;  but  he  has  no 
discretion.    He  is  too  absolute  and  loves  too  little.' 

Jehane  opened  her  eyes  very  wide.  '  Why,  do 
you  know  my  lord,  sire  ? '  she  asked.  The  Old 
Man  took  her  hand. 

'  There  are  very  few  personages  in  the  world  of 
whom  I  do  not  know  something,'  he  said ;  *  and  I 
tell  you  that  there  are  terms  to  the  Melek's  gov- 
ernment. A  man  cannot  say  Yea  and  Nay  as  he 
chooses  without  paying  the  price.  The  debt  on 
either  hand  mounts  up.  He  may  choose  with 
whom  he  will  settle — those  he  has  favoured  or 
those  he  has  denied.  As  a  rule  one  finds  the 
former  more  insatiable.  Let  him  then  beware  of 
his  brother.' 

Jehane  leaned  towards  him,  pleading  with  eyes 
and  mouth.  *  Oh,  sire,'  she  said,  trembling  at  the 
lips,  '  if  you  have  any  regard  for  me,  tell  me  when 
any  danger  threatens  King  Richard.  For  then  I 
must  leave  you.* 


3IO  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

*Why,  that  is  as  it  may  be/  said  her  master; 

*  but  I  will  let  you  know  what  I  think  good  for 
you  to  know,  and  that  must  content  you.' 

Jehane's  beauty,  enhanced  as  it  was  now  by  the 
sumptuous  attire  which  she  loved  and  by  her 
bodily  well-being,  was  great,  and  her  modesty 
greater ;  but  her  heart  was  the  greatest  thing  she 
had.  She  raised  her  eyes  again  to  the  twinkling 
eyes  of  her  possessor,  and  kept  them  there  for 
a  few  steady  seconds,  while  she  turned  over  his 
words  in  her  mind.  Then  she  looked  down,  say- 
ing, *  I  will  certainly  stay  with  you  till  my  lord's 
danger  is  at  hand.     It  is  a  good  air  for  my  baby.' 

*  It  is  good  for  all  manner  of  things,'  said  the 
Old  Man;  'and  remarkably  good  for  you,  my 
Garden  of  Exhaustless  Pleasure.  And  I  will 
see  to  it  that  it  continues  to  water  the  roses 
in  your  cheeks,  beautiful  child.'  Jehane  folded 
her  hands. 

'  You  will  do  as  you  choose,  my  lord,'  said  she, 

*  I  doubt  not.' 

*  Be  quite  sure  of  it,  dear  child,'  said  the  Old 
Man. 

Then  he  sent  her  back  into  the  harem. 


CHAPTER   IX 

HOW  KING  RICHARD   REAPED  WHAT  JEHANE  HAD 
SOWED,  AND  THE  SOLDAN  WAS  GLEANER 

*  Consider  with  anxious  care  the  marrow  of 
your  master  when  he  is  fortunate,'  writes  Milo 
of  Poictiers :  '  if  it  lasts  him,  he  is  a  slow  spender 
of  his  force;  but  on  that  account  all  the  more 
dangerous  in  adversity,  having  the  deeper  funds. 
By  this  I  would  be  understood  to  imply  that  the 
devil  of  Anjou,  turned  to  fighting  uses  in  King 
Richard's  latter  years,  found  him  a  habitable 
fortalice.'  With  the  best  reasons  in  life  for  the 
reflection,  he  might  have  said  it  more  simply; 
for  it  is  simply  true.  Deserted  by  his  allies, 
balked  of  his  great  aspiration,  within  a  day's 
march  of  the  temple  of  God,  yet  as  far  from 
that  as  from  his  castle  of  Chinon;  eaten  with 
fever;  having  death,  lost  purpose,  murmurings, 
fed  envy  reproach,  upon  his  conscience  —  he 
yet  fought  his  way  through  sullen  leagues  of 
mud  to  Ascalon;  besieged  it,  drove  his  enemy 
out,  regained  it.  Thence,  pushing  quickly  south, 
he  surprised  Darum,  and  put  the  garrison  to  the 
sword.  By  this  act  he  cut  Saladin  in  two,  and 
drove  such  a  wedge  into  the  body  of  his  empire 
as  might  leave  either  lung  of  it  at  his  mercy. 
The  time  seemed,  indeed,  ripe  for  negotiation. 
Saladin   sent    his    brother    down    from    Jerusa- 

3" 


312  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

lem  with  presents  of  hawks;  Richard,  sitting 
in  armed  state  at  Darum,  received  him  affably. 
There  was  still  a  chance  that  treaty  might  win 
for  Jesus  Christ  what  the  sword  had  not  won. 

Then,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  greatness  of  men, 
came  ill  news  apace.  The  Frenchmen,  back  in 
Acre,  heard  tell  of  Montferrat's  doings  and  un- 
doing. Pretty  work  of  this  sort  perturbed  the 
allies.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy  charged  Saladin 
with  the  murder;  Saint- Pol  loudly  charged  King 
Richard,  and  the  Duke's  death,  coming  timely, 
left  him  in  the  field.  He  made  the  most  of  his 
chance,  wrote  to  the  Emperor,  to  King  Philip, 
to  his  cousin  the  Archduke  of  Austria  (at  home 
by  now),  of  this  last  shameful  deed  of  the  red 
Angevin.  He  even  sent  messengers  to  Richard 
himself  with  open  letters  of  accusal.  Richard 
laughed,  but  for  all  that  broke  off  negotiations 
with  Saladin  until  he  could  prove  Saint-Pol 
as  great  a  liar  as  he  himself  knew  him  to  be. 
Then  rose  up  again  the  question  of  the  Crown 
of  Jerusalem.  The  Count  of  Champagne  took 
ship  and  came  to  Darum  to  beg  it  of  Richard. 
He  too  brought  news  with  him.  The  Duke  of 
Burgundy  was  dead  of  an  apoplexy.  *  It  seems 
that  God  is  still  faintly  on  my  side,'  said  Rich- 
ard.    *  There  went  out  a  sooty  candle.' 

The  next  words  gave  his  boast  the  lie.  *  Beau 
sire,'  said  Count  Henry,  *  I  grieve  to  tell  you 
something  more.  Before  I  left  Acre  I  saw  the 
Abbot  Milo.' 

Richard  had  grey  streaks  in  his  face.  *  Ah,* 
he  says  hoarsely,  *go  on,  cousin.'  The  young 
man  stammered. 


CH.  IX  THE   KING  REAPS  313 

*  Beau  sire,  God  strikes  in  divers  places,  but 
always  finds  out  the  joints  of  our  harness.' 

'  Go  on,'  says  King  Richard,  sitting  very  still. 

*  Dear  sire,  my  cousin,  the  Abbot  Milo  went 
out  of  Acre  three  weeks  before  the  death  of 
the  Marquess.  With  him  also  went  Madame 
Jehane;  but  he  returned  without  her.  This  is 
all  I  know,  though  it  is  not  all  that  the  abbot 
knows.' 

At  the  mention  of  her  name  the  King  took 
a  sharp  breath,  as  you  or  I  do  when  quick  pain 
strikes  us.  To  the  rest  he  listened  without  a 
sign ;    and  asked  at  the  end,  '  Where  is  Milo  ? ' 

'  He  is  at  Acre,  sire,'  says  the  Count ;  '  and 
in  prison.' 

'  Who  put  him  there  ? ' 

*  Myself,  sire.' 

*  You  did  wrong.  Count.  Get  you  back  to 
Acre  and  bring  him  to  me.'  Champagne  went 
away. 

Great  trouble,  as  you  know,  always  made 
Richard  dumb ;  the  grief  struck  inwards  and 
congealed.  He  became  more  than  ever  his  own 
councillor,  the  worst  in  the  world.  Lucky  for  the 
Abbot  Milo  that  he  was  in  bonds ;  but  now  you 
see  why  he  penned  the  aphorism  with  which  I 
began  this  chapter. 

After  that  short,  stabbing  flash  across  his  face, 
he  shut  down  misery  in  a  vice.  The  rest  of  his 
talk  with  the  Count  might  have  been  held  with  a 
groom.  Henry  of  Champagne,  knowing  the  man, 
left  him  the  moment  he  got  the  word ;  and  King 
Richard  sat  down  by  the  table,  and  for  three 


314  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

hours  never  stirred.  He  was  literally  motionless. 
Straightly  rigid,  a  little  grey  about  the  face,  white 
at  the  cheek-bones ;  his  clenched  hand  stiff  on 
the  board,  white  also  at  the  knuckles;  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  door  —  men  came  in,  knelt  and  said 
their  say,  then  encountering  his  blank  eyes  bent 
their  heads  and  backed  out  quietly.  If  he  thought, 
none  may  learn  his  thought ;  if  he  felt,  none  may 
touch  the  place ;  if  he  prayed,  let  those  who  are 
able  imagine  his  prayers.  What  Jehane  had  been 
to  him  this  book  may  have  shadowed  out :  this 
only  I  say,  that  he  knew,  from  the  very  first  hint 
of  the  fact,  why  she  had  gone  out  with  Milo  and 
sent  Milo  home  alone.  The  Queen  knew,  because 
Jehane  had  told  her ;  but  he  knew  with  no  telling 
at  all.  She  had  gone  away  to  save  him  from 
herself.  Needing  him  not,  because  she  so  loved 
him,  it  was  her  beauty  which  was  hungry  for  his 
desire.  Not  daring  to  mar  her  beauty,  she  had 
sought  to  hide  it.  Greater  love  hath  none  than 
this.  If  he  thought  of  that  it  should  have  soft- 
ened him.     He  did  not  think  of  it :  he  knew  it. 

At  the  end  of  his  grim  vigil  he  got  up  and 
went  out  of  his  house.  He  was  served  with  his 
horse,  his  esquires  came  at  call  to  the  routine  of 
garrison  days  and  nights.  He  rode  round  the 
walls,  out  at  one  of  the  gates,  on  a  sharp  canter  of 
reconnaissance  in  the  hills.  Perhaps  he  spokG 
more  shortly  than  usual,  and  more  drily;  there 
may  have  been  a  dead  quality  in  his  voice,  usually 
so  salient.  There  was  no  other  sign.  At  supper 
he  sat  before  them  all,  ate  and  drank  at  his  wont. 
Once  only  he  startled  the  hallful  of  them.  Hq 
dropped  his  great  gold  cup,  and  it  split.  \ 


CH.  IX  THE  KING  REAPS  315 

But  as  day  followed  night,  all  men  saw  the 
change  in  him,  Christians  and  Saracens  alike. 
A  spirit  of  quiet  savagery  seemed  to  possess 
him ;  the  cunning,  with  the  mad  interludes,  of  a 
devil.  He  set  patient  traps  for  the  Saracens  in 
the  hills,  and  slaughtered  all  he  took.  One  day 
he  fell  upon  a  great  caravan  of  camels  coming 
from  Babylon  to  Jerusalem,  and  having  cut  the 
escort  to  pieces,  slew  also  the  merchants  and  trav- 
ellers. He  seemed  to  give  the  sword  the  more 
heartily  in  that  he  sought  it  for  himself,  but  could 
never  get  it.  No  doubt  he  deserved  to  get  it. 
He  performed  deeds  of  impossible  foolhardy  gal- 
lantry, the  deeds  of  a  knight-errant ;  rode  solitary, 
made  single-handed  rescues,  suffered  himself  to 
be  cut  off  from  his  posts,  and  then  with  a  handful 
of  knights,  or  alone,  indeed,  carved  his  way  back 
to  Darum.  Des  Barres,  the  Earl  of  Leicester  and 
the  Grand  Master,  never  left  his  side ;  Gaston  of 
Beam  used  to  sleep  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  and 
creep  about  after  him  like  a  cat ;  but  this  terrible 
mood  of  his  wore  them  out.  Then,  at  last,  the 
Count  of  Champagne  came  back  with  Milo  and 
more  bad  news.  Joppa  was  in  sore  straits,  again 
besieged ;  the  Bishop  of  Sarum  was  returned  from 
the  West,  having  a  branch  of  dead  broom  in  his 
hand  and  stories  of  a  throttled  kingdom  on  his 
lips. 

Before  any  other  Richard  had  Milo  alone. 
The  good  abbot  is  very  reticent  about  the  inter- 
view in  his  book.  What  he  omits  is  more  sig- 
nificant than  what  he  says.  *  I  found  my  master,' 
he  writes,  '  sitting  up  in  his  bed  in  his  hauberk  of 
mail.     They  told  me  he  had  eaten  nothing  for 


3i6  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

two  days,  yet  vomited  continually.  He  had  killed 
five  hundred  Saracens  meantime.  I  suppose  he 
knew  who  I  was.  "  Tell  me,  my  good  man,"  he 
said  ( strange  address  ! ),  "  the  name  of  the  person 
to  whom  Madame  d'Anjou  took  you." 

'  I  said,  "  Sire,  we  went  to  the  Lord  of  the 
Assassins,  whom  they  call  Old  Man  of  Musse." 

* "  Why  did  you  go,  monk  ?  "  he  asked,  and  felt 
about  for  his  sword,  but  could  not  find  it.  Yet  it 
was  close  by.  I  said,  "  Sire,  because  of  a  report 
which  had  reached  the  ears  of  Madame  that  the 
Marquess  and  the  Old  Man  were  in  league  to  have 
you  murdered."  To  this  he  made  no  reply,  except 
to  call  me  a  fool.  Later  he  asked,  "  How  died 
the  Marquess  ? " 

*"Sire,"  I  answered,  "most  miserably.  He 
went  up  Lebanon  to  see  the  Old  Man,  and  came 
presently  down  again  with  two  of  the  Assassins  in 
his  company,  but  none  of  his  train.  These  per- 
sons, being  near  his  city  of  Sidon,  at  a  signal 
agreed  upon  stabbed  him  with  their  long  knives, 
then  cut  off  his  right  hand  and  despatched  it  to 
the  Old  Man  by  one  of  them.  The  other  stayed 
by  the  corpse,  and  was  so  found  peacefully  sleep- 
ing, and  burned." 

*  The  King  said  nothing,  but  gave  me  money 
and  a  little  jewel  he  used  to  wear,  as  if  I  had  done 
him  a  service.  Then  he  nodded  a  dismissal,  and 
I,  wondering,  left  him.  He  did  not  speak  to  me 
again  for  many  weeks.' 

You  may  collect  that  Richard  was  very  ill.     He 
was.     The  disease  of  his  mind  fed  fat  upon  the   ; 
disease  of  his  body,  and  from  the  spoils  of  the 


CH.  K  THE   KING  REAPS  317 

feast  savagery  reared  its  clotted  head.  Syrian 
mothers  still  quell  their  children  with  the  name  of 
Melek  Richard,  a  reminiscence  of  the  dreadful 
time  when  he  was  without  ruth  or  rest.  He  spoke 
of  his  purposes  to  none,  listened  to  none.  The 
Bishop  of  Sarum  had  come  in  with  a  budget  of 
disastrous  news :  Count  John  had  England  under 
his  heel,  Philip  of  France  had  entered  Normandy 
in  force,  the  lords  of  Aquitaine  were  in  revolt. 
If  God  had  no  use  for  him  in  the  East,  here  was 
work  to  do  in  the  West.  But  had  He  none.^ 
What  of  Joppa,  shuddering  under  the  sword  ? 
What  of  Acre,  where  the  French  army  wallowed 
in  sloth,  with  two  queens  at  its  mercy  and  Saint- 
Pol  in  the  mercy-seat  .^^    What,  indeed,  of  Jehane  ? 

Nobody  breathed  her  name ;  yet  night  and  day 
the  image  of  her  floated,  half-hid  in  scarlet  clouds, 
before  King  Richard.  These  clouds,  a  torn  regi- 
ment, raced  across  his  vision,  like  cavalry  broken, 
in  mad  retreat.  Out  of  the  tumbled  mass  two 
hands  would  throw  up,  white,  long,  thin  hands, 
Jehane's  hands  drowned  in  frothy  blood.  Then, 
in  his  waking  dream,  when  he  drove  in  the  spurs 
and  started  to  save,  the  colours  changed,  black 
swam  over  the  blood ;  and  one  hand  only  would 
stay,  held  up  warningly,  saying,  *  Forbear,  I  am 
separate,  fenced,  set  apart'  Thus  it  was  always  : 
menace,  wicked  endeavour,  shipwreck,  ruin;  al- 
ways so,  her  agony  and  denial,  his  wrath  and 
defeat. 

But  this  was  wholesome  torment.  There  was 
other  not  so  purgatorial  —  damned  torment.  That 
was  when  the  sudden  thought  of  her  possession  by 
another  man,  of  his  own  robbery,  his  own  impo- 


3i8  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

tence  to  regain,  came  upon  him  in  a  surging  flood 
and  made  his  neck  swell  with  the  rage  of  a  beast. 
And  no  crouching  to  spring,  no  flash  through  the 
air,  no  snatching  here.  Here  was  no  Gilles  de 
Gurdun  to  deal  with.  Only  the  beast's  resource 
was  his,  who  had  the  beast's  desire  without  his 
power.  At  such  times  of  obsession  he  lashed  up 
and  down  his  chamber  or  the  flat  roof  of  his  house, 
all  the  tragic  quest  of  a  leopard  in  a  cage  making 
blank  his  desperate  hunting  eyes.  '  Lord,  Lord, 
Lord,  how  long  can  this  endure  ? '  Alas,  the  cage 
was  wider  than  any  room,  and  stronger  by  virtue 
of  his  own  fashioning  of  the  locks.  But  to  do  him 
justice,  Jehane's  grave  face  would  sail  like  a  moon 
among  the  storm-clouds  sooner  or  later,  and  humble 
him  to  the  dust. 

Sometimes,  mostly  at  dawn,  when  a  cool  wind 
stole  through  the  trees,  he  saw  the  trail  of  events 
more  clearly,  and  knew  whom  to  blame  and  whom 
to  praise.  Generous  as  he  was  through  and 
through,  at  these  times  he  did  not  spare  the  whip. 
But  the  image  he  set  up  before  whom  to  scourge 
himself  was  Jehane  Saint-Pol,  that  pure  cold  saint, 
offering  up  her  proud  body  for  his  needs ;  and  so 
sure  as  he  did  that  he  desired  her,  and  so  sure  as 
he  desired  he  raged  that  he  had  been  robbed. 
Robber  as  he  owned  himself,  now  he  had  been 
robbed.  So  the  old  black  strife  began  again. 
Many  and  many  a  dawn,  as  he  thought  of  these 
things,  he  went  out  alone  into  the  shadowless 
places  of  the  land,  to  the  quiet  lapping  sea,  to  the 
gardens,  or  to  the  housetop  fronting  the  new-born 
day,  with  prayer  throbbing  for  utterance,  but  a 
tongue  too  dry  to  pray.     Despair  seized  on  him, 


CH.  IX  THE  KING  REAPS  319 

and  he  led  his  men  out  to  death-dealing,  that  so 
haply  he  might  find  death  for  himself.  The  time 
wore  to  early  summer,  while  he  was  nightly  visited 
by  the  thought  of  his  sin,  and  daily  winning  more 
stuff  for  repentance.  Then,  one  morning,  instead 
of  going  out  singly  to  battle  with  his  own  soul, 
he  went  in  to  the  Abbot  Milo.  What  follows 
shall  be  told  in  his  own  words. 

'  The  King  came  to  me  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing of  Saints  Primus  and  Felician,  while  I  yet  lay 
in  my  bed.  "  Milo,  Milo,"  said  he,  "  what  must  I 
do  to  be  saved  ?  "  He  was  very  white  and  wild, 
shaking  all  over.  I  said,  "  Dear  Master,  save  thy 
people.  On  all  sides  they  cry  to  thee  —  from 
England,  from  Normandy,  from  Anjou,  from 
Joppa  also,  and  Acre.  There  is  no  lack  of  en- 
treaty." He  shook  his  head.  "  Here,"  he  said, 
"  I  can  do  no  more.  God  is  against  me,  the  work 
too  holy  for  such  a  wretch."  "  Lord,"  I  said,  "  we 
are  all  wretches,  Heaven  save  us !  If  your  Grace 
is  held  off  God's  inheritance,  you  can  at  least 
hold  others  from  your  own.  Here,  may  be,  you 
took  a  charge  too  heavy ;  but  there,  at  home,  the 
charge  was  laid  upon  you.  Renouncing  here,  you 
shall  gain  there.  It  cannot  be  otherwise."  I  be- 
lieved in  what  I  said;  but  he  gripped  the  caps 
of  his  knees  and  rocked  himself  about.  "  They 
have  beaten  me,  Milo.  Saint-Pol,  Burgundy, 
Beauvais  —  I  am  bayed  by  curs.  What  am  I, 
Milo.?"  "Sire,"  I  said,  "your  father's  son.  As 
they  bayed  the  old  lion,  so  they  bay  the  young." 
He  gaped  at  me,  open-mouthed.  "By  God. 
Milo,"  he  said,  "  I  bayed  him  myself,  and  believed 
that  he  deserved  it."     "  Lord,"  I  answered,  "  who 


320  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

am  I  to  judge  a  great  king?  For  my  part  I 
never  believed  that  monstrous  sin  was  upon  him." 
Here  he  jumped  up.  "  I  am  going  home,  Milo," 
he  said ;  "  I  am  going  home.  I  am  going  to  my 
father's  tomb.  I  will  do  penance  there,  and  serve 
my  people,  and  live  clean.  Look  now,  Milo, 
shrive  me  if  thou  hast  the  power,  for  my  need 
is  great."  The  thought  was  blessed  to  him.  He 
confessed  his  sins  then  and  there,  all  a  huddle  of 
them,  weeping  so  bitterly  that  I  should  have  wept 
myself  had  I  not  been  ready  rather  to  laugh  and 
crack  my  fingers  to  see  the  breaking  up  of  his 
long  and  deadly  frost.  Before  I  shrived  him, 
moreover,  I  dared  to  speak  of  Madame  Jehane, 
how  he  had  now  lost  her  for  ever,  and  why ;  how 
she  was  now  at  last  a  man's  wife,  and  that  by  her 
own  deliberate  will ;  and  how  also  he  must  do 
his  duty  by  the  Queen.  To  all  of  which  he  gave 
heed  and  promises  of  quiet  endurance.  Then  I 
shrived  him,  and  that  very  morning  gave  him 
the  Lord's  sacred  body  in  the  Church  of  the 
Sepulchre.  I  believed  him  sane;  and  so  for  a 
long  time  he  was,  as  he  testified  by  deeds  of 
incredible  valour.' 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  the  fleet  put  out 
to  sea,  shaping  course  for  Acre.  Message  after 
message  came  in  from  beleaguered  Joppa;  but 
King  Richard  paid  little  heed  to  them,  pending 
the  issue  of  new  treating  with  Saladin.  He  cer- 
tainly sailed  with  a  single  eye  on  Acre.  But 
Joppa  lay  on  his  course,  and  it  is  probable,  he 
being  what  he  was,  that  the  sight  of  no  means  to 
do  great  deeds  made  great  deeds  done.  When  his 
red  galley  sighted  Joppa,  standing  in  for  the  pur- 


CH.  IX  THE   KING  REAPS  321 

pose,  all  seemed  over  with  the  doomed  city.  This, 
no  doubt  (since  his  mood  was  hot),  urged  him  to 
one  of  those  impossible  acts,  '  incredible  deeds  of 
valour,'  as  Milo  calls  them,  for  which  his  name 
lives,  while  those  of  many  better  kings  are  for- 
gotten. 

The  country  about  Joppa  slopes  sharply  to  the 
sea,  and  gives  little  or  no  shelter  for  ships ;  but 
so  quick  is  the  slope  that  a  galley  may  ride  under 
the  very  walls  of  the  town  and  take  in  provision 
from  the  seaward  windows.  On  the  landward 
side  it  is  dangerously  placed,  seeing  that  the 
stoop  of  the  country  runs  from  the  mountains 
to  it.  The  few  outlying  forts,  the  stone  bridge 
over  the  river,  cannot  be  held  against  a  resolute 
foe.  When  King  Richard's  fleet  drew  near 
enough  to  see,  it  was  plain  what  had  been  done. 
The  Saracens  had  carried  the  outworks;  they 
held  the  bridge.  At  leisure  they  had  broached 
the  walls  and  swarmed  in.  The  flag  on  the  cita- 
del still  flew ;  battle  or  carnage  was  raging  in  the 
streets  all  about  it.    Its  fall  was  a  matter  of  hours. 

Now  King  Richard  stood  on  the  poop  of  his 
galley,  watching  all  this.  He  saw  a  man  come 
running  down  the  mole  chased  by  half  a  dozen 
horsemen  in  yellow,  a  priest  by  the  look  of  him ; 
you  could  see  the  gleam  of  his  tonsure  as  he 
plunged.  For  so  he  did,  plunged  into  the  sea 
and  swam  for  his  life.  The  pursuers  drew  up  on 
the  verge  and  shot  at  him  with  their  long  bows. 
They  were  of  Saladin's  bodyguard,  fine  marksmen 
who  should  never  have  missed  him.  But  the  priest 
swam  like  a  fish,  and  they  did  miss  him.  King 
Richard  himself  hooked  him  out   by  the  gown, 


322  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.ii 

and  then  clipped  him  in  his  arms  like  a  lover. 
*  Oh,  brave  priest !  Oh,  hardy  heart ! '  he  cried, 
full  of  the  man's  bravery.  'Give  him  room  there. 
Let  him  cough  up  the  salt.  By  my  soul,  barons, 
I  wish  that  any  draught  of  wine  may  be  so  glorious 
sweet* 

The  priest  sat  up  and  told  his  tale.  The  city 
was  a  shambles  ;  every  man,  woman,  or  child  had 
been  put  to  the  sword.  Only  the  citadel  held 
out;  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  No  time  was 
lost;  for  King  Richard,  in  his  tunic  and  breeches 
as  he  was,  in  his  deck  shoes,  without  a  helm,  un- 
mailed  in  any  part,  snatched  up  shield  and  axe. 
'Who  follows  Anjou?'  he  called  out,  then  plunged 
into  the  sea.  Des  Barres  immediately  followed  him, 
then  Gaston  of  Beam  (with  a  yell)  and  the  Earl 
of  Leicester  neck  and  neck;  then  the  Bishop 
of  Salisbury,  a  stout-hearted  prince,  Auvergne, 
Limoges,  and  Mercadet.  These  eight  were  all 
the  men  in  authority  that  Trenchemer  held,  except 
some  clerks,  fat  men  who  loved  not  water.  But 
as  soon  as  the  other  ships  saw  what  was  afoot,  a 
man  here  and  there  followed  his  King.  The  rest 
rowed  closer  to  the  shore  and  engaged  the  Sara- 
cen horsemen  with  their  archers.  Long  before 
any  men  could  be  got  off  the  eight  were  on  dry 
land,  and  had  found  a  way  into  the  sacked  city. 

How  they  did  what  they  did  the  God  of  Battles 
knows  best ;  but  that  they  did  it  is  certain.  All 
accounts  of  the  fray  agree,  Bohadin  with  Vinsauf, 
Moslem  and  Christian  alike.  What  pent  rage, 
what  storm  curbed  up  short,  what  gall,  what  mor- 
tification, what  smoulder  of  resentment,  bit  into 
King   Richard,  we  may  guess  who  know  him. 


CH.  DC  THE  KING  REAPS  323 

Such  it  was  as  to  nerve  his  arm,  nerve  his  fol- 
lowing to  be  his  lovers,  make  him  unassailable, 
make  a  devil  of  him.  Not  a  devil  of  blind  fury, 
but  a  cold  devil  who  could  devise  a  scope  for  his 
malice,  choose  how  to  do  his  stabbing  work  wise- 
liest.  Inside  the  town  gate  they  took  up  close 
order,  wedgewise,  linked  and  riveted ;  a  shield 
before,  shields  beside,  Richard  with  his  double-axe 
for  the  wedge's  beak.  They  took  the  steep  street 
at  a  brisk  pace,  turning  neither  right  nor  left,  but 
heading  always  for  the  citadel,  boring  through  and 
trampling  down  what  met  them.  This  at  first 
was  not  very  much,  only  at  one  corner  a  company 
of  Nubian  spears  came  pelting  down  a  lane,  hoping 
to  cut  them  off  by  a  flank  movement.  Richard 
stopped  his  wedge;  the  blacks  buffeted  into  their 
shields  with  a  shock  that  scattered  and  tossed  them 
up  like  spray.  The  wedge  held  firm;  red  work 
for  axe  and  swords  while  it  lasted.  They  killed 
most  of  the  Nubians,  drove  bodily  through  the 
rabble  at  their  heels ;  then  into  the  square  of  the 
citadel  they  came.  It  was  packed  with  a  shriek- 
ing horde-  whose  drums  made  the  day  a  hell, 
whose  great  banners  wagged  and  rocked  like  osiers 
in  a  flood-water.  They  were  trying  to  fire  the 
citadel,  and  some  were  swarming  the  walls  from 
others'  backs.  The  square  was  like  a  whirlpool 
in  the  sea,  a  sea  of  tense  faces  whose  waves  were 
surging  men  and  the  flying  wrack  their  gonfanons. 
King  Richard  saw  how  matters  lay  in  this 
horrible  hive";  these  men  could  not  fight  so  clOvSe. 
Cavalry 'can  do  nothing  in  a  dense  mass  of  foot, 
bowmen  cannot  shoot  confined;  spearmen  against 
swords  are  little  worth,  javelins  sped  once.      So 


324  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

much  he  saw,  and  also  the  straining  crowd,  the 
lifted,  threatening  arms,  the  stretched  necks  about 
the  citadel.  '  O  Lord,  the  heathen  are  come  into 
Thine  inheritance.  At  the  word,  sirs,  cleave  a 
way.'  And  then  he  cried  above  the  infernal  riot, 
'  Save,  Holy  Sepulchre !  Save,  Saint  George !  * 
and  the  wedge  drove  into  the  thick  of  them. 

This  work  was  butcher's  work,  like  sawing 
through  live  flesh.  Too  much  blood  in  the 
business:  after  a  while  the  haft  of  the  King's 
axe  got  rotten  with  it,  and  at  a  certain  last  blow 
gave  way  and  bent  like  a  pulpy  stock.  He  helped 
himself  to  a  beheaded  Mameluke's  scimitar,  and 
did  his  affair  with  that.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  and 
four  timxcs  they  furrowed  that  swarm  of  men; 
nothing  broke  their  line.  Richard  himself  was 
only  cut  in  the  feet,  where  he  trod  on  mailed 
bodies  or  broken  swords ;  the  others  (being  them- 
selves in  mail)  were  without  scathe.  They  held 
the  square  until  the  Count  of  Champagne  came 
up  with  knights  and  Pisan  arbalestiers,  and  then 
the  day  was  won.  They  drove  out  the  invaders ; 
on  the  Templars'  house  they  ran  up  the  English 
dragon-flag.     King  Richard  rested  himself. 

Two  days  later  a  pitched  battle  was  fought  on 
the  slopes  above  Joppa.  Saladin  met  Richard  for 
the  last  time,  and  the  Melek  worsted  him.  Our 
King  with  fifteen  knights  played  the  wedge  again 
when  his  enemy  was  packed  to  his  taste ;  and  this 
time  (being  known)  with  less  carnage.  But  the 
left  wing  of  the  invading  army  re-entered  the 
town,  the  garrison  had  a  panic.  Richard  wheeled 
and  scoured  them  out  at  the  other  end ;  so  they 
perished  in  the  sea.     Men  say,  who  saw  him,  that 


CH.  IX  THE   KING   REAPS  325 

he  did  it  alone.  So  terrible  a  name  he  had  with 
the  Saracens,  this  may  very  well  be.  There  had 
never  been  seen,  said  they,  such  a  fighter  before. 
Like  sheep  they  huddled  at  his  sight,  and  like 
sheep  his  onset  scattered  them.  '  Let  God  arise,' 
says  Milo  with  a  shaking  pen :  '  and  lo !  He 
arose.  O  lion  in  the  path,  who  shall  stand  up 
against  thee  ? ' 

He  drove  Saladin  into  the  hills,  and  set  him 
manning  once  more  the  watch-towers  of  Jeru- 
salem. But  he  had  reached  his  limit ;  sickness 
fastened  on  him,  and  on  the  ebb  of  his  fury  came 
lagging  old  despair.  For  a  week  he  lay  in  his 
bed  delirious,  babbling  breathless  foolish  things  of 
Jehane  and  the  Dark  Tower,  of  the  broomy  downs 
by  Poictiers,  the  hills  of  Languedoc,  of  Henry  his 
handsome  brother,  of  Bertran  de  Born  and  the 
falcon  at  Le  Puy.  Then  followed  a  pleasant 
thing.  Saladin,  the  noble  foe,  heard  of  it,  and 
sent  Saphadin  his  brother  to  visit  him.  They 
brought  the  great  Emir  into  the  tent  of  his 
great  enemy. 

*  O  God  of  the  Christians ! '  cried  he  with  tears, 
*  what  is  this  work  of  thine,  to  make  such  a  mir- 
ror of  thy  might,  and  then  to  shatter  the  glass  ? ' 
He  kissed  King  Richard's  burning  forehead,  then 
stood  facing  the  standers-by. 

*  I  tell  you,  my  lords,  there  has  been  no  such 
king  as  this  in  our  country.  My  brother  the 
Sultan  would  rather  lose  Jerusalem  than  have 
such  a  man  to  die.' 

At  this  Richard  opened  his  eyes.  *  Eh,  Sapha- 
din, my  friend,'  he  says,  '  death  is  not  mine  yet, 
nor  Jerusalem  either.     Make  me  a  truce  with  my 


326  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

brother  Saladin  for  three  years.  Then  with  the 
grace  of  God  I  will  come  and  fight  him  again. 
But  for  this  time  I  am  spent' 

'  Are  you  wounded,  dear  sire?'  asked  Saphadin. 

*  Wounded  ? '   said    the    King   in    a   whisper. 

*  Yes,  wounded  in  the  soul,  and  in  the  heart  — 
sick,  sick,  sick.' 

Saphadin,    kneeling    down,   kissed    his    ring. 

*  May  the  God  whom  in  secret  we  both  worship, 
the  God  of  Gods,  do  well  by  you,  my  brother.' 
So  he  said,  and  Richard  nodded  and  smiled  at 
him  kindly. 

When  peace  was  made  they  carried  him  to  his 
ship.     The  fleet  went  to  Acre. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE  CHAPTER  CALLED  BONDS 

King  Richard  sent  for  his  sister  Joan  of  Sicily 
on  the  morrow  of  his  coming  to  Acre,  and  thus 
addressed  her :  '  Let  me  hear  now,  sister,  the  truth 
of  what  passed  when  the  Queen  saw  Madame 
d'Aniou.' 

'  Madame  d'Anjou ! '  cried  Joan,  who  (as  you 
know)  had  plenty  of  spirit ;  *  I  think  you  rob  the 
Queen  of  a  title  there.' 

'  I  cannot  rob  her  of  what  she  never  had,'  said 
King  Richard ;  '  but  I  will  repeat  my  question  if 
you  do  not  remember  it' 

'  No  need,  sire,'  replied  the  lady,  and  told  him 
all  she  knew.  She  added,  '  Sire  and  my  brother, 
if  I  may  dare  to  say  so,  I  think  the  Queen  has  a 
grief.  Madame  Jehane  made  no  pretensions  —  I 
hope  I  do  her  full  justice  —  but  remember  that 
the  Queen  made  none  either.  You  took  her  of 
your  royal  will ;  she  was  conscious  of  the  honour. 
But  of  what  you  gave  you  took  away  more  than 
half.  The  Queen  loves  you,  Richard ;  she  is  a 
most  miserable  lady,  yet  there  is  time  still.  Make 
a  wife  of  your  queen,  brother  Richard,  and  all 
will  be  well.  For  what  other  reason  in  the  world 
did  Madame  Jehane  wdiat  she  did  ?  For  love  of 
an  old  man  whom  she  had  never  seen,  do  you 
think?' 

327 


328  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  k 

The  King's  brow  grew  dark  red.  He  spoke 
deliberately.  *  I  will  never  make  her  my  wife. 
I  will  never  willingly  see  her  again.  I  should 
sin  against  religion  or  honour  if  I  did  either,  I 
will  never  do  that.    Let  her  go  to  her  own  country.' 

'Sire,  sire,'  said  Joan,  'how  is  she  to  do  that-f*' 

'  As  she  will,'  says  the  King;  'but,  for  my  part 
of  it,  with  every  proper  accompaniment.' 

'  Sire,  the  dowry ' 

*  I  return  it,  every  groat.' 
'  The  affront ' 

'  The  affront  is  offered.  I  prevent  a  greater 
affront' 

'  Is  this  fixed,  Richard  }  ' 
'  Irrevocably.' 

*  She  loves  you,  sire ! ' 

*  She  loves  ill.     Get  up  on  your  feet' 
'  Sire,  I  beseech  you  pity  her.' 

*  I  pity  her  deeply.  I  think  I  pity  everybody 
with  whom  I  have  had  to  deal.  I  do  not  choose 
to  have  any  more  pitiful  persons  about  me.  Fare 
you  well,  sister.  Go,  lest  I  pity  you.'  She 
pleaded. 

'  Ah,  sire  ! ' 

*The  audience  is  at  an  end,'  said  the  King; 
and  the  Queen  of  Sicily  rose  to  take  leave. 

He  kept  his  word,  never  saw  Berengere  again 
but  once,  and  that  was  not  yet.  What  remained 
for  him  to  do  in  Syria  he  did,  patched  up  a  truce 
with  Saladin,  saw  to  Henry  of  Champagne's 
election,  to  Guy  of  Lusignan's  establishment; 
dealt  out  such  rewards  and  punishments  as  lay 
in  his  power,  sent  the  two  queens  with  a  convoy 


CH.  X  BONDS 


329 


to  Marseilles.  Then,  two  years  from  his  hopeful 
entry  into  Acre  as  a  conqueror,  he  left  it  a  defeated 
man.  He  had  won  every  battle  he  had  fought 
and  taken  every  city  he  had  invested.  His  allies 
had  beaten  him,  not  the  heathen. 

They  were  to  beat  him  again,  with  help.  The 
very  skies  took  their  part.  He  was  beset  by 
storms  from  the  day  he  launched  on  the  deep, 
separated  from  his  convoy,  driven  from  one  shore 
to  another,  fatally  delayed.  His  enemies  had 
time  to  gather  at  home:  Eustace  of  Saint-Pol, 
Beauvais,  Philip  of  France ;  and  behind  all  these 
was  John  of  Mortain,  moving  heaven  and  earth 
and  them  to  get  him  a  realm.  By  a  providence, 
as  he  thought  it,  Richard  put  into  Corsica  under 
stress  of  weather,  and  there  heard  how  the  land 
lay  in  Gaul.  Philip  had  won  over  Raymond  of 
Toulouse,  Saint-Pol  heading  a  joint-army  of  theirs 
was  near  Marseilles,  ready  to  destroy  him.  King 
Richard  was  to  walk  into  a  trap.  By  this  time, 
you  must  know,  he  had  no  more  to  his  power 
than  the  galley  he  rode  in,  and  three  others.  He 
had  no  Des  Barres,  no  Gaston,  no  Beziers ;  he 
had  not  even  Mercadet  his  captain,  and  no 
thought  where  they  might  be.  The  trap  would 
have  caught  him  fast. 

'  Pretty  work,'  he  said,  *  pretty  work.  But  I 
will  better  it.'  He  put  about,  and  steered  round 
Sicily  for  the  coast  of  Dalmatia ;  here  was  caught 
again  by  furious  gales,  lost  three  ships  out  of  the 
four  he  had,  and  finally  sought  haven  at  Gazara, 
a  little  fishing  village  on  that  empty  shore.  His 
intention  was  to  travel  home  by  way  of  Germany 
and  the  Low  Countries,  and  so  land  in  England 


330  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

while  his  brother  John  was  still  in  France.  Either 
he  had  forgotten,  or  did  not  care  to  remember, 
that  all  this  country  was  a  fief  of  the  Archduke 
Luitpold's.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  Luitpold 
hated  him,  but  not  that  he  held  him  guilty  of 
Montferrat's  murder.  Suspecting  no  great  diffi- 
culty, he  sent  up  messengers  to  the  lord  of  Gazara 
for  a  safe-conduct  for  certain  merchants,  pil- 
grims. This  man  was  an  Austrian  knight  called 
Gunther. 

'  Who  are  your  pilgrims  ? '  Gunther  asked ;  and 
was  told,  Master  Hugh,  a  merchant  of  Alost,  he 
and  his  servants. 

*  What  manner  of  a  merchant  ? '  was  Gunther's 
next  question. 

'  My  lord,'  they  said,  who  had  seen  him,  *  a  fine 
man,  tall  as  a  tree,  and  strong  and  straight,  having 
keen  blue  eyes,  and  a  reddish  beard  on  his  chin, 
as  the  men  of  Flanders  do  not  use.' 

Gunther  said,  '  Let  me  see  this  merchant,'  and 
went  down  to  the  inn  where  King  Richard  was. 

Now  Richard  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  warming 
himself.  When  Gunther  came  in,  furred  and 
portly,  he  did  not  rise  up ;  which  was  unfortunate 
in  a  pretended  merchant. 

'Are  you  Master  Hugh  of  Alost .^'  Gunther 
asked,  looking  him  over. 

'  That  is  the  name  I  bear,'  said  Richard.  *  And 
who  are  you,  my  friend } ' 

The  Austrian  stammered.  '  Hey,  thou  dear 
God,  I  am  Lord  Gunther  of  this  castle  and  town ! ' 
he  said,  raising  his  voice.  Then  the  King  got  up 
to  make  a  reverence,  and  in  so  doing  betrayed  his 
stature. 


CH.  X  BONDS  331 

*  I  should  have  guessed  it,  sir,  by  your  gentle- 
ness in  coming  to  visit  me  here.  I  ask  your 
pardon.'  Thus  the  King,  while  Gunther  won- 
dered. 

*  You  are  a  very  tall  merchant,  Hugh,'  says  he. 

*  Do  they  make  your  sort  in  Alost  ? '  King 
Richard  laughed. 

'  It  is  the  only  advantage  I  have  of  your  lord- 
ship. For  the  rest,  my  countrywomen  make 
straight  men,  I  think.' 

'  Were  you  bred  in  Alost,  Master  Hugh  ? '  asked 
Gunther  suspiciously ;  and  again  Richard  laughed 
as  he  said,  '  Ah,  you  must  ask  my  mother.  Lord 
Gunther.' 

*  Lightning ! '  was  the  Austrian's  thought;  'here 
is  a  pretty  easy  merchant' 

He  raised  some  little  difficulties,  vexations  of 
routine,  which  King  Richard  persistently  laughed 
at,  while  doing  his  best  to  fulfil  them.  Gunther 
did  not  relish  this.  He  named  the  Archduke  as 
his  overlord,  hard  upon  strangers.  Richard  let  it 
slip  that  he  did  not  greatly  esteem  the  Archduke. 
However,  in  the  end  he  got  his  safe-conduct,  and 
all  would  have  been  well  if,  on  leaving  Gazara,  he 
had  not  overpaid  the  bill. 

Overpay  is  not  the  word :  he  drowned  the  bill. 
In  a  hurry  for  the  road,  the  innkeeper  fretted  him. 

*  Reckoning,  landlord ! '  he  cried,  with  one  foot 
in  the  stirrup:  'how  the  devil  am  I  to  reckon 
half-way  up  a  horse  ?  Here,  reckon  yourself,  my 
man,  and  content  you  with  these.'  He  threw  a 
fistful  of  gold  besants  on  the  flags,  turned  his 
horse   sharply    and   cantered   out   of  the    yard. 

*  Colossal  man ! '  gasped  the  innkeeper.     *  King  or 


332  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

devil,  but  no  merchant  under  the  sun.'  So  the 
news  spread  abroad,  and  Gunther  puffed  his 
cheeks  over  it.  A  six-foot-two  man,  a  monstrous 
leisurely  merchant,  who  rose  not  to  the  lord  of  a 
castle  and  town,  who  did  not  wait  for  his  lordship's 
humour,  but  found  laughable  matter  in  his  own  ; 
who  was  taller  than  the  Archduke  and  thought 
his  Grace  a  dull  dog ;  who  made  a  Danae  of  his 
landlord !  Was  this  man  Jove  ?  Who  could 
think  the  Archduke  a  dull  dog  except  an  Emperor, 
or,  perhaps,  a  great  king?  A  king:  stay  now. 
There  were  wandering  kings  abroad.  How  if 
Richard  of  England  had  lost  his  way  ?  Here  he 
slapped  his  thigh  :  but  this  must  be  Richard  of 
England  —  what  other  king  was  so  tall  ?  And  in 
that  case,  O  thunder  in  the  sky,  he  had  let  slip 
his  Archduke's  deadly  enemy !  He  howled  for  his 
lanzknechtS;  his  boots,  helmet,  great  sword;  he  set 
off  at  once,  and  riding  by  forest  ways,  cut  off  the 
merchant  in  a  day  and  a  night.  He  ran  him  to 
earth  in  the  small  wooden  inn  of  a  small  wooden 
village  high  up  in  the  Carinthian  Alps,  Blomau 
by  name,  which  lies  in  a  forest  clearing  on  the 
road  to  Gratz. 

King  Richard  was  drinking  sour  beer  in  the 
kitchen,  and  not  liking  it.  The  lanzknechts  sur- 
rounded the  house;  Gunther  with  two  of  them 
behind  him  came  clattering  in.  Glad  of  the 
diversion,  Richard  looked  up. 

*  Ha,  here  is  Lord  Gunther  again,'  said  he. 
*  Better  than  beer.' 

*  King  Richard  of  England,'  said  the  Austrian, 
white  by  nature,  heat,  and  his  feelings,  '  I  make 
you  my  prisoner.' 


CH.  X  BONDS  333 

'So  it  seems,'  replied  the  King;  *sit  down, 
Gunther.  I  offer  you  beer  and  a  most  indifferent 
cheese.' 

But  Gunther  would  by  no  means  sit  down  in 
the  presence  of  an  anointed  king  for  one  bid- 
ding. 

'Ah,  sire,  it  is  proper  that  I  should  stand 
before  you,'  he  said  huskily,  greatly  excited. 

'  It  is  not  at  all  proper  when  I  tell  you  to  be 
seated,'  returned  King  Richard.  So  Gunther  sat 
down  and  wiped  his  head,  Richard  finished  his 
beer ;  and  then  they  went  to  sleep  on  the  floor. 
Early  in  the  morning  the  prisoner  woke  up  his 
gaoler. 

'  Come,  Gunther,'  he  says,  *  we  had  better  take 
the  road.' 

'  I  am  ready,  sire,'  says  Gunther,  manifestly  un- 
ready.    He  rose  and  shook  himself. 

*  Lead,  then,'  Richard  said. 

*  I  follow  you,  sire.' 

'  Lead,  you  white  dog,'  said  the  King,  and 
showed  his  teeth  for  a  moment.  The  Austrian 
obeyed.  One  of  Richard's  few  attendants,  a  Nor- 
man called  Martin  Vaux,  adopted  for  his  own  sal- 
vation the  simple  expedient  of  staying  behind; 
and  Gunther  was  in  far  too  exalted  a  mood  to 
notice  such  a  trifle.  When  he  and  his  troop  had 
rounded  the  forest  road,  Martin  Vaux  rounded 
it  also,  but  in  the  opposite  direction.  He  was 
rather  a  fool,  though  not  fool  enough  to  go  to 
prison  if  he  could  help  it.  Being  a  seaman  by 
grace,  he  smelt  for  his  element,  and  by  grace 
found  it  after  not  many  days.  More  of  him 
presently. 


334  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

Archduke  Luitpold  was  in  his  good  town  of 
Gratz  when  news  was  brought  him,  and  the  man. 
'  Du  lieber  Gott ! '  he  crowed.  '  Ach,  mein  Gun- 
ther ! '  and  embraced  his  vassal. 

His  fiery  little  eyes  burned  red,  as  Mars  when 
he  flickers ;  but  he  was  a  gentleman.  He  took 
Richard's  proffered  hand,  and  after  some  fumbling 
about,  kissed  it. 

'  Ha,  sire ! '  came  the  words,  deeply  exultant, 
from  his  big  throat.  '  Now  we  are  on  more  equal 
terms,  it  appears.' 

*  I  agree  with  you,  Luitpold,'  said  the  King ; 
and  then,  even  as  the  Archduke  was  wetting  his 
lips  for  the  purpose,  he  added,  '  But  I  hope  you 
will  not  stretch  your  privilege  so  far  as  to  make 
me  a  speech.' 

Austria  swallowed  hard.  *  Sire,  it  would  take 
many  speeches  to  wipe  out  the  provocations  I  have 
received  at  your  hands.  All  the  speeches  in  the 
councils  of  the  world  could  not  excuse  the  deaths 
of  my  second  cousin  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol  and 
of  my  first  cousin  the  Marquess  of  Montferrat' 

'  That  is  true,'  replied  Richard,  '  but  neither 
could  they  restore  them  to  life.' 

'  Sire,  sire ! '  cried  the  Archduke,  *  upon  my 
soul  I  believe  you  guilty  of  the  Marquess's 
death.' 

*  I  assumed  that  you  did,'  was  the  King's  an- 
swer ;  '  and  your  protestation  adds  no  weight  to 
my  theory,  but  otherwise.' 

'  Do  you  admit  it,  King  Richard  ? '  The  Arch- 
duke, an  amazed  man,  looked  foolish.  His  mouth 
fell  open  and  his  hair  stuck  out ;  this  gave  him 
the  appearance  of  a  perturbed  eagle  in  a  bush. 


CH.  X  BONDS  335 

*  I  am  far  from  denying  it,'  says  Richard.  '  1 
never  deny  any  charges,  and  never  make  any 
unless  I  am  prepared  to  pursue  them ;  which  is 
not  the  case  at  present/ 

*  I  must  keep  you  in  safe  hold,  sire,'  the  Arch- 
duke said.  '  I  must  communicate  with  my  lord 
the  Roman  Emperor.' 

'  You  are  in  your  right,  Luitpold,'  said  King 
Richard. 

The  end  of  the  day's  work  was  that  the  King 
of  England  was  lodged  in  a  high  tower,  some 
sixty  feet  above  the  town  wall. 

Now  consider  the  acts  of  Martin  Vaux,  smelling 
for  the  sea.  In  a  little  time  he  did  better  than 
that,  for  he  saw  it  from  the  top  of  a  high  mountain, 
shining  far  off  in  the  haze,  and  then  had  nothing 
to  do  but  follow  down  a  river-bed,  which  brought 
him  duly  to  Trieste.  Thence  he  got  a  passage  to 
Venice,  where  the  wineshops  were  too  good  or  too 
many  for  him.  He  talked  of  his  misfortunes,  of 
his  broken  shoes,  of  Austrian  beer,  of  his  exalted 
master,  of  his  extreme  ingenuity  and  capacity  for 
all  kinds  of  faithful  service.  Now  Venice  was,  as 
it  is  now,  a  place  colluvies  gentium.  Gaunt,  lonely 
Arabs  stalked  the  narrow  streets,  or  dreamed 
motionless  by  the  walls  of  the  quay.  The  city 
was  full  of  strayed  Crusaders,  disastrous  broken 
blades,  of  renegade  Christians,  renegade  Moslems, 
adaptable  Jews,  of  pilgrims,  and  chafferers  of  rel- 
ics from  the  holy  places.  Martin's  story  spread 
like  the  plague,  but  not  (unhappily)  to  any  advan- 
tage of  King  Richard  imperturbable  in  his  tower. 
Martin  Vaux  then,  having  drunk  up  the  charity 


336  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

of  Venice,  shipped  for  Ancona.  There  too  he 
met  with  attentions,  for  there  he  met  a  country- 
man of  his,  the  Sieur  Gilles  de  Gurdun,  a  Nor- 
man knight. 

When  Sir  Gilles  heard  that  King  Richard  was 
in  prison,  but  that  Jehane  was  not  with  him,  he 
grew  very  red.  That  he  had  never  learned  of  her 
deeds  at  Acre  need  not  surprise  you.  He  had 
not  heard  because  he  had  not  been  to  Acre  with 
the  French  host,  but  instead  had  gone  pilgrim  to 
Jerusalem,  and  thence  with  Lusignan  to  Cyprus. 
So  now  he  took  Martin  Vaux  by  the  windpipe 
and  shook  him  till  his  eyes  stared  like  agate  balls. 
'  Tell  me  where  Madame  Jehane  is,  you  clot,  or  I 
finish  what  I  have  begun,'  he  said  terribly.  But 
Martin  could  tell  him  no  more,  for  he  was  quite 
dead.  It  was  proper,  even  in  Ancona,  to  be 
moving  after  that ;  and  Gilles  was  very  ready  to 
move.  The  hunger  and  thirst  for  Jehane,  which 
had  never  left  him  for  long,  came  aching  back 
to  such  a  pitch  that  he  felt  he  must  now  find 
her,  see  her,  touch  her,  or  die.  The  King  was 
her  only  clue;  he  must  hunt  him  out  wherever  he 
might  be.  One  of  two  things  had  occurred : 
either  Richard  had  tired  of  her,  or  he  had  lost  her 
by  mischance  of  travel.  There  was  a  third  pos- 
sible thing,  that  the  Queen  had  had  her  murdered. 
He  put  that  from  him,  being  sure  she  was  not 
dead.  'Death,'  said  Gilles,  'is  great,  but  not 
great  enough  to  have  Jehane  in  her  beauty.'  He 
really  believed  this.  So  he  came  back  to  his  two 
positions.  If  the  King  had  tired  of  her,  he  would 
not  scruple  (being  as  he  was)  to  admit  as  much 
to   Gilles.     If   he  had  lost  her,  he  was  safe  in 


CH.  X  BONDS  337 

prison ;  and  Gilles  knew  that  with  time  he  could 
find  her.  But  he  must  be  sure.  He  thought  of 
another  thing.  '  If  he  is  in  prison,  in  chains,  he 
might  be  stabbed  with  certain  ease.'  His  heart 
exulted  at  the  hot  thought. 

It  was  not  hard  to  follow  back  on  Martin's 
dallying  footsteps.  He  traced  him  to  Venice,  to 
Trieste,  up  the  mountains  as  far  as  Blomau. 
There  he  lost  him,  and  shot  very  wide  of  the 
mark.  In  fact,  the  slow-witted  young  man  went 
to  Vienna  on  a  false  rumour  —  but  it  boots  not 
recount  his  wanderings.  Six  months  after  he  left 
Ancona,  ragged,  hatless,  unkempt,  hungry,  he 
came  within  sight  of  the  strong  towers  of  Gratz ; 
and  as  he  went  limping  by  the  town  ditch  he 
heard  a  clear,  high  voice  singing  — 

Li  dous  consire 

Quem  don'  Amors  soven  — 

and  knew  that  he  had  run  down  his  man. 

One  other,  crouching  under  the  wall,  most 
intent  watcher,  saw  him  stop  as  if  hit,  clap  his 
hand  to  his  shock-head,  then  listen,  brooding, 
working  his  jaws  from  side  to  side.  The  voice 
stayed;  Gilles  turned  and  slowly  went  his  way 
back.  He  limped  under  the  gateway  into  the 
town,  and  the  croucher  by  the  wall  peered  at  him 
between  the  meshes  of  her  dishevelled  hair. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  CHAPTER  CALLED   A  LATERE 

The  Old  Man  of  Musse,  Lord  of  all  the  Assas- 
sins, descendant  of  Ali,  Fulness  of  Light,  Master 
of  them  that  eat  hemp,  and  many  things  beside, 
wedded  Jehane  and  made  her  his  principal  wife. 
He  valued  in  her,  apart  from  her  bodily  perfec- 
tions, her  discretion,  obedience,  good  sense,  and 
that  extraordinary  sort  of  pride  which  makes  its 
possessor  humble,  so  inset  it  is ;  too  proud,  you 
may  say,  to  give  pride  a  thought.  Esteeming  her 
at  this  price,  it  is  not  remarkable  if  she  came  to 
be  his  only  wife. 

This  was  the  manner  of  her  life.  When  her 
husband  left  her,  which  was  very  early  in  the 
morning,  she  generally  slept  for  an  hour,  then 
rose  and  went  to  the  bath.  Her  boy  was  brought 
to  her  in  the  pavilion  of  the  Garden  of  Fountains ; 
she  spent  two  hours  or  more  with  him,  teaching 
him  his  prayers,  the  honour  of  his  father,  love  and 
duty  to  his  mother,  respect  for  the  long  purposes 
of  God.  At  ten  o'clock  she  broke  her  fast,  and 
afterwards  her  women  sat  with  her  at  needlework ; 
and  one  would  sing,  or  one  tell  a  good  tale;  or, 
leave  being  given,  they  would  gossip  among  them- 
selves, with  a  look  ever  at  her  for  approval  or 
(what  rarely  happened)  disapproval.  There  was 
not  a  soul  among  her  slaves  who  did  not  love  her, 

338 


CH.  XI  A  LATERE  339 

nor  one  who  did  not  fear  her.  She  talked  no 
more  than  she  had  ever  done,  but  she  judged  no 
less.  Many  times  a  day  the  Old  Man  sent  for 
her,  or  sometimes  came  to  her  room,  to  discuss 
his  affairs.  He  never  found  her  out  of  humour, 
dull,  perverse,  or  otherwise  than  well-disposed  to 
all  his  desires.  Far  from  that,  every  Friday  he 
gave  thanks  in  the  mosque  for  the  gift  of  such  an 
admirable  wife — grave,  discreet,  pious,  amorous, 
chaste,  obedient,  nimble,  complaisant,  and  most 
beautiful,  as  he  hereby  declared  that  he  found  her. 
Being  a  man  of  the  greatest  possible  experience, 
this  was  high  praise;  nor  had  he  been  slow  in 
making  up  his  mind  that  she  was  to  be  trusted. 
He  was  about  to  prove  his  deed  as  good  as  his 
opinion. 

Word  was  brought  her  on  a  day,  as  she  sat  in 
the  harem  with  her  boy  on  her  knee,  singing  to 
herself  and  him  some  winding  song  of  France, 
that  this  redoubtable  lord  of  hers  was  waiting  to 
see  her  in  her  chamber.  She  put  the  child  down 
and  followed  the  eunuch.  Entering  the  room 
where  the  Old  Man  sat,  she  knelt  down,  as  was 
customary,  and  kissed  his  knee.  He  touched 
her  bent  head.  '  Rise  up,  my  child,'  says  he,  '  sit 
with  me  for  a  little.  I  have  matters  of  concern- 
ment for  you.'  She  sat  at  once  by  his  side ;  he 
took  her  hand  and  began  to  talk  to  her  in  this 
manner, 

'  It  appears,  Jehane,  that  I  am  something  of  a 
prophet.  Your  late  master,  the  Melek  Richard, 
has  fallen  into  the  power  of  his  enemies ;  he 
is  now  a  prisoner  of  the  Archduke's  on  many 
charges :  first,  the  killing  of  your  brother  Eudo, 


340  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

Count  of  Saint-Pol ;  but  that  is  a  very  trifling 
affair,  which  occurred,  moreover,  in  fair  battle. 
Next,  they  accuse  him  —  falsely,  as  you  know — 
of  the  death  of  Montferrat.  We  may  have  our 
own  opinion  about  that  But  the  prime  matter, 
as  I  guess,  is  ransom,  and  whether  those  who  wish 
him  ill  (not  for  what  he  has  done  to  them,  but  for 
what  he  has  not  allowed  them  to  do  to  him)  will 
suffer  him  to  be  ransomed.  Now,  what  have  you 
to  say,  my  child  ?     I  see  that  it  affects  you.' 

Jehane  was  affected,  but  not  as  you  might 
expect.  With  great  self-possession  she  had  a  very 
practical  mind.  There  were  neither  tears  nor 
heart-beatings,  neither  panic  nor  flying  of  colours. 
Her  eyes  sought  the  Old  Man's  .and  remained 
steadily  on  them ;  her  lips  were  firm  and  red. 

'  What  are  you  v/illing  to  do,  sire  ?  '  she  asked 
him.     Sinan  stroked  his  fine  beard. 

'  I  can  dispose  of  the  business  of  Montferrat  in 
a  few  lines,'  he  said,  considering.  '  More,  I  can 
reach  the  Melek  and  assure  him  of  comfort. 
What  I  cannot  do  so  easily,  though  I  admit  no 
failure,  mind,  is  to  induce  his  enemies  at  home  to 
allow  of  a  ransom.' 

'  I  can  do  that,'  said  Jehane,  '  if  you  will  do  the 
rest'     The  Old  Man  patted  her  cheek. 

*  It  is  not  the  custom  of  my  nation  to  allow 
wives  abroad.  You,  moreover,  are  not  of  that 
nation.  How  can  I  trust  the  Melek,  who  (I 
know)  loves  you  ?  How  can  I  trust  you,  who 
(I  know)  love  the  Melek.?' 

*  Oh,  sire,'  says  Jehane,  looking  him  full  in 
the  face,  *  I  came  here  because  I  loved  my  lord 
Richard;  and  when  I  have  assured  his  safety  I 


CH.  XI  A  LATERE 


341 


shall  return  here.'  She  looked  down,  as  she 
added  —  *  For  the  same  reason,  and  for  no  other.' 
'  I  quite  understand  you,  child,'  said  the  Old 
Man,  and  put  his  hand  under  her  chin.  This 
made  her  blush,  and  brought  up  her  face  again 
quickly. 

*  Dear  sire,'  she  said  shyly,  *  you  are  very  kind 
to  me.  If  I  had  another  reason  for  returning  it 
would  be  that.'     Sinan  kissed  her. 

*  And  so  it  shall  be,  my  dear,'  he  assured  hen 
*  There  is  time  enough.  You  shall  certainly  go, 
due  regard  being  had  to  my  dignity,  and  your 
health,  which  is  delicate  just  now.' 

'  Have  no  fear  for  me,  my  lord,'  she  said.  *  I 
am  very  strong.'  He  kissed  her  again,  saying,  *  I 
have  never  known  a  woman  at  once  so  beautiful 
and  so  strong.' 

He  wrote  two  letters,  sealing  them  with  his 
own  signet  and  that  of  King  Solomon.  To  the 
Archduke  he  said  curtly  — 

*  To  the  Archduke  Luitpold,  Vetus  de  Monte 
sends  greeting.  If  the  Melek  Richard  be  any 
way  let  in  the  matter  of  his  life  and  renown,  I 
bid  you  take  heed  that  as  I  served  the  Marquess 
of  Montferrat,  so  also  I  shall  serve  your  Serenity.' 

But  the  Emperor  demanded  more  civil  adver- 
tisement :  he  got  a  remarkably  fine  letter. 

*  To  the  most  exalted  man,  Henry,  by  the  grace 
of  God  Emperor  of  the  Romans,  happy,  pious, 
ever  august,  the  invincible  Conqueror,  Vetus  de 
Monte,  by  the  same  great  Chief  of  the  Assassins, 
sends  greeting  with  the  kiss  of  peace.  Let  your 
Celsitude  make  certain  acquaintance  with  error 
in  regard  to  the  most  illustrious  person  whom 


342  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

you  have  in  hold.  Not  that  Melek  Richard 
caused  the  death  of  the  Marquess  Conrad;  but 
I,  the  Ancient,  the  Lord  of  Assassins,  Fulness  of 
Light,  for  good  cause,  namely  to  save  my  friend 
the  same  Melek  from  injurious  death  at  the  hands 
of  the  Marquess.  And  him,  the  said  Melek,  I 
am  resolved  at  all  hazards  to  defend  by  means  of 
the  silent  smiters  who  serve  me.  So  farewell ; 
and  may  He  protect  your  Celsitude  whom  we 
diversely   worship.' 

As  with  every  business  of  the  Old  Man's,  prep- 
arations were  soon  and  silently  made.  In  three 
or  four  days'  time  Jehane  strained  the  young 
Fulke  to  her  bosom,  took  affectionate  humble 
leave  of  her  master,  and  left  the  green  valley  of 
Lebanon  on  her  embassy. 

She  was  sent  down  to  the  coast  in  the  manner 
becoming  the  estate  of  a  Sultan's  favourite  wife. 
She  never  set  foot  on  the  ground,  never  even  saw 
it.  She  was  in  a  close-curtained  litter,  herself 
veiled  to  the  eyes.  Sitting  with  her  was  a  vast 
old  Turkish  woman,  whom  in  the  harem  they 
called  the  Mother  of  Flowers.  Mules  bore  the 
litter,  eunuchs  on  mules  surrounded  it.  On  all 
sides,  a  third  line  of  defence,  rode  the  janissaries, 
hooded  in  white,  on  white  Arabian  horses.  So 
they  came  swiftly  to  Tortosa,  whose  lord,  in  strict 
alliance  with  him  of  Musse,  little  knew  that  in 
paying  homage  to  the  shrouded  cage  he  was  cap- 
in-hand  to  Jehane  of  Picardy.  Long  galleys 
took  up  the  burden  of  the  mountain  roads, 
dipped  and  furrowed  across  the  ^gean,  and 
touched  land  at  Salonika.  Hence  by  relays  of 
bearers  Jehane  was  carried  darkly  to   Marburg 


CH.  XI  A  LATERE  343 

in  Styria,  where  at  last  she  saw  the  face  of  the 
sky. 

They  took  her  to  the  inn  and  unveiled  her. 
Then  the  chief  of  the  eunuchs  handed  her  a  paper 
which  he  had  written  himself,  being  deprived  of  a 
tongue  :  —  *  Madame,  Fragrance  of  the  Harem, 
Gulzareen  (which  is  to  say.  Golden  Rose),  thus  I 
am  commanded  by  my  dreadful  master.  From 
this  hour  and  place  you  are  free  to  do  what  seems 
best  to  your  wisdom.  The  letters  of  our  lord  will 
be  sent  forward  by  the  proper  bearers  of  them, 
one  to  Gratz,  where  the  Archduke  watches  the 
Melek,  and  one  to  the  Emperor  of  the  Romans, 
wherever  he  may  be  found.  In  Gratz  is  he  whom 
you  seek.  This  day  six  months  I  shall  be  here  to 
attend  your  Sufficiency.'  He  bowed  three  times, 
and  went  away. 

*  Now,  mother,'  said  Jehane  to  the  old  duenna, 
*  do  for  me  what  I  bid  you,  and  quickly.  Get  me 
brown  juice  for  my  skin,  and  a  ragged  kirtle  and 
bodice,  such  as  the  Egyptians  wear.  Give  me 
money  to  line  it,  and  then  let  me  go.'  All  this 
was  done.  Jehane  put  on  vile  raiment  which 
barely  covered  her,  stained  her  fair  face,  neck, 
and  arms  brown,  and  let  her  hair  droop  all  about 
her.  Then  she  went  barefoot  out,  hugging  her- 
self against  the  cold,  being  three  months  gone 
with  child,  and  took  the  road  over  barren  moor- 
land to  Gratz. 

She  had  not  seen  King  Richard  for  nearly  two 
years,  at  the  thought  of  which  thing  and  of  him 
the  hot  blood  leapt  up,  to  thrust  and  tingle  in  her 
face.  She  did  not  mean  to  see  him  now  if  she 
could  help  it,  for  she  knew  just  how  far  she  could 


344  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

withstand  him ;  she  would  save  him  and  then  go 
back.  Thus  she  reasoned  with  herself  as  she 
trudged :  *  Jehane,  ma  mye,  thou  art  wife  now  to  a 
wise  old  man,  who  is  good  to  thee,  and  has  exalted 
thee  above  all  his  women.  Thou  must  have  no 
lovers  now.  Only  save  him,  save  him,  save  him, 
Lord  Jesus,  Lady  Mary ! '  She  treated  this  as  a 
prayer,  and  kept  it  very  near  her  lips  all  the  way 
to  Gratz,  except  when  she  felt  herself  flush  all 
over  with  the  thought,  *  School  of  God !  Is  so 
great  a  king  to  be  prayed  for,  as  if  he  were  a  sick 
monk  ? '  Nevertheless,  she  prayed  more  than  she 
flushed.  Nothing  disturbed  her;  she  slept  in 
woods,  in  byres,  in  stackyards ;  bought  what  she 
needed  for  food,  attracted  no  attention,  and  got  no 
annoyance  worthy  the  name.  At  the  closing  in 
of  the  fifth  day  she  saw  the  walls  of  the  city  rise 
above  the  black  moors  into  the  sky,  and  the  towers 
above  them.  The  dome  of  a  church,  gilded,  caught 
the  dying  sun's  eye ;  its  towers  were  monstrous 
tall,  round,  and  peaked  with  caps  of  green  copper. 
On  the  walls  she  counted  seven  other  towers,  heavy, 
squat,  flat-roofed  fortresses  with  huge  battlements. 
A  great  flag  hung  in  folds,  motionless  about  a  staff. 
All  was  a  uniform  dun,  muflled  in  stormy  sky,  low- 
ering, remote  from  knowledge,  and  alien. 

But  Jehane  herself  was  of  the  North,  and  not 
impressionable.  Grey  skies  were  familiar  tents  to 
her,  moorlands  roomy  places,  one  heap  of  stones 
much  like  another.  But  her  heart  beat  high  to 
know  Richard  half  a  league  away;  all  her  trouble 
was  how  she  should  find  him  in  such  a  great 
town.  It  was  dusk  when  she  reached  it;  they 
were  about  to  shut  the  gates.     She  let  them,  hav- 


CH.  XI  A  LATERE  345 

ing  seen  that  there  were  booths  and  hovels  at  the 
barriers,  even  a  little  church.  It  was  there  she 
spent  the  night,  huddled  in  a  corner  by  the  altar. 
Dawn  is  a  laggard  in  Styria.  She  awoke  before 
it  was  really  light,  and  crept  out,  munching  a  crust. 
The  suburb  was  dead  asleep,  a  little  breeze  ruffled 
the  poplars,  and  blew  wrinkles  on  the  town  ditch. 
About  and  about  the  walls  she  went,  peering  up  at 
their  ragged  edge,  at  the  huge  crumbling  towers, 
at  the  storks  on  steep  roofs.  '  Eh,  Lord  God. 
here  lies  in  torment  my  lovely  king ! '  she  cried 
to  herself.  The  keen  breeze  freshened,  the  cloud- 
wrack  went  racing  westward  ;  it  left  the  sky  clean 
and  bare.  Out  of  the  east  came  the  red  sun,  and 
struck  fire  upon  the  dome  of  Saint  Stanislas.  Out 
of  a  high  window  then  came  the  sound  of  a  man 
singing,  a  sharp  strong  voice,  tremulous  in  the 
open  notes.     She  held  her  bosom  as  she  heard  — 

Al  entrada  del  terns  clar,  eya  ! 
Per  joja  recomen^ar,  eya  ! 
Vol  la  regina  mostrar 
Qu'el'  es  si  amoroza. 

The  sun  kindled  her  lifted  face,  filled  her  wet  eyes 
with  light,  and  glistened  on  her  praying  lips. 

After  that  her  duty  was  clear,  as  she  conceived 
it.  She  dared  not  attempt  the  tower :  that  would 
reveal  her  to  him.  But  she  could  not  leave  it. 
She  must  wait  to  learn  the  effect  of  her  lord's 
letter,  wait  to  see  the  bearer  of  it :  here  she  would 
wait,  where  she  could  press  the  stones  which  bore 
up  the  stones  pressed  by  Richard.  So  she  did. 
Grouching  on  the  earth  .  by  the  wall,  sheltered 
against  the  wind  or  the  wet  by  either  side  of  a 


346  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

buttress,  getting  her  food  sparingly  from  the  booths 
at  the  gate,  or  of  charity.  The  townsmen  of  Gratz, 
hoarse-voiced  touzleheads  mostly,  divined  her  to 
be  an  anchoress,  a  saint,  or  an  unfortunate.  She 
was  not  of  their  country,  for  her  hair  was  burnt 
yellow  like  a  Lombard's,  and  her  eyes  green ;  her 
face,  tanned  and  searching,  was  like  a  Hunga- 
rian's; they  thought  that  she  wove  spells  with 
her  long  hands.  On  this  account  at  first  she  was 
driven  away  on  to  the  moors ;  but  she  always 
returned  to  her  place  in  the  angle,  and  counted 
that  a  day  gained  when  she  knew  by  Richard's 
strong  singing  that  he  yet  lived.  His  songs  told 
her  more  than  that :  they  were  all  of  love,  and  if 
her  name  came  not  in  her  image  did.  She  knew 
by  the  mere  pitch  of  his  voice  —  who  so  well  ?  — 
when  he  was  occupied  with  her  and  when  not. 
Mostly  he  sang  all  the  morning  from  the  moment 
the  sun  struck  his  window.  Thus  she  judged  him 
a  light  sleeper.  From  noon  to  four  there  was  no 
sound ;  surely  then  he  slept.  He  sang  fitfully  in 
the  evening,  not  so  saliently;  more  at  night,  if 
there  was  a  moon ;  and  generally  he  closed  his 
eyes  with  a  stave  of  Li  dotis  consire,  that  song 
which  he  had  made  of  and  for  her. 

When  she  had  been  sitting  there  for  upwards 
of  a  month,  and  still  no  sign  from  the  bearer  of 
the  letter,  she  saw  Gilles  de  Gurdun  come  halting 
up  the  poplar  avenue  and  pry  about  the  walls, 
much  as  she  herself  had  done.  She  knew  him 
at  once  for  all  his  tatters,  this  square-faced,  low- 
browed Norman.  How  he  came  there,  if  not  as 
a  slot-hound  comes,  she  could  not  guess ;  but  she 
knew  perfectly  well  what   he  was   about.      The 


CH.  XI  A  LATERE  347 

blood-instinct  had  led  him,  inflexible  man,  from 
far  Acre  across  the  seas,  over  the  sharp  moun- 
tains and  enormous  plains;  the  blood-instinct 
had  brought  him  as  truly  as  ever  love  led  her — 
more  truly,  indeed.  Here  he  was,  with  murder 
still  in  his  heart. 

Watching  him  through  the  meshes  of  her  hair, 
elbowing  her  arms  on  her  knees,  she  thought. 
What  should  she  do.^^  Plead?  Nay,  dare  she 
plead  for  so  royal  a  head,  for  so  great  a  heart, 
so  great  a  king,  for  one  so  nearly  god  that,  for 
a  sacrifice,  she  could  have  yielded  up  no  more  to 
very  God  ?  This  strife  tore  her  to  pieces,  while 
Gurdun  snufHed  round  the  walls,  actually  round 
the  buttress  where  she  crouched,  spying  out  the 
entries.  On  one  side  she  feared  Gilles,  on  the 
other  scorned  what  he  could  do.  There  was 
the  leper!  He  made  Gilles  terrible;  even  her 
sacrifice  on  Lebanon  might  not  avail  against 
such  as  he.  But  King  Richard  !  But  this  strong 
singer !  But  this  god  of  war !  Gilles  came  round 
the  walls  for  a  second  time,  nosing  here  and  there, 
stopping,  shaking  his  head,  limping  on.  Then 
she  heard  the  King's  voice  singing,  high  and 
sharp  and  spiring;  his  glorious  voice,  keener 
than  any  man's,  as  pure  as  any  boy's,  singing 
with  astounding  gaiety,  '  Al  entrada  del  terns 
clar,  eya  I ' 

Gilles  stopped  as  one  struck,  and  gaped  up 
at  the  tower.  To  see  his  stupid  mouth  open, 
jehane's  bosom  heaved  with  pride  well-nigh  in- 
sufferable. Had  any  woman,  since  Mary  con- 
ceived, such  a  lover  as  hers  !  '  Oh,  Gilles,  Gilles, 
go  you  on  with  your  knife  in  your  vest.     What 


348  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

can  you  do,  little  oaf,  against  King  Richard?* 
Gilles  went  in  by  the  gate,  and  she  let  him  go. 
He  was  away  two  days,  by  which  time  she  had 
cause  to  alter  her  mind.  The  prisoner  sang 
nothing;  and  presently  a  man  dressed  like  a 
Bohemian  came  out  of  the  town  and  spoke  to 
her.  This  was  Cogia,  the  Assassin,  bearer  of 
the  letter. 

'Well,  Cogia?'  said  Jehane,  holding  herself. 

*  Mistress,  the  letter  of  our  lord  has  been 
delivered.  I  think  it  may  go  hard  with  the 
Melek.' 

'  What,  Cogia  ?  Does  the  Archduke  dare  ? ' 
'  The  Archduke,  mistress,  desires  not  the 
Melek's  death.  He  is  a  worthy  man.  But  many 
do  desire  it  —  kings  of  the  West,  kinsmen  of  the 
Marquess,  above  all  the  Melek's  blood-brother. 
One  of  that  prince's  men,  as  I  judge  him,  is  with 
him  now  —  one  of  your  country,  mistress.' 

In  a  vision  she  saw  the  leper  again,  a  dull 
smear  in  the  sunny  waste,  scratching  himself  on 
a  white  stone.  She  saw  him  come  hopping  from 
rock  to  rock,  his  wagging  finger,  shapeless  face, 
tongueless  voice. 

*  Mistress '  said  Cogia.     She  turned  blank 

eyes  upon  him.  '  I  pray,'  she  said ;  '  I  pray.  Has 
God  no  pity  ? ' 

Cogia  shrugged.  *  What  has  God  to  do  with 
pity?  The  end  of  the  world  is  in  His  hand 
already.  The  Melek  is  a  king,  and  the  Norman 
dung  in  his  sight.  Who  knows  the  end  but  God, 
and  how  shall  He  pity  what  He  hath  decreed  for 
wisdom  ?  This  I  say,  if  the  King  dies  the  man 
dies.' 


CH.  XI  A  LATERE  349 

Jehane  threw  up  her  head.  '  The  King  will 
not  die,  Cogia.  Yet  to-morrow,  if  the  man  comes 
not  out,  I  will  go  to  seek  him.' 

Early  in  the  morning  Gilles  did  come  out, 
turned  the  angle  of  the  ditch,  and  shuffled  towards 
her,  his  head  hung.  Jehane  moved  swiftly  out 
from  the  shadow  of  the  buttress  and  confronted 
him.  She  folded  her  arms  over  her  breast ;  and 
at  that  moment  the  shadow  of  Richard's  tower 
was  capped  with  the  shadow  of  Richard  himself. 
But  she  saw  nothing  of  this.  '  Halt  there.  Sir 
Gilles,'  she  said.  The  Norman  gave  a  squeal,  like 
a  hog  startled  at  his  trough,  and  went  dead-fire 
colour. 

'  Ha,  Heart  of  Jesus ! '  said  Gilles  de  Gurdun. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  CHAPTER  OF   STRIFE    IN  THE   DARK 

One  very  great  power  of  King  Richard's  had 
never  served  him  better  than  now,  the  power  of 
immense  quiescence,  whereunder  he  could  sit  by 
day  or  by  night  as  inert  as  a  stone,  a  block  hewn 
into  shape  of  a  man,  neither  to  be  moved  by  out- 
side fret  nor  by  the  workings  of  his  own  mind. 
Into  this  rapt  state  he  fell  when  the  prison  doors 
shut  on  him,  and  so  remained  for  three  or  four 
weeks,  alone  while  the  Fates  were  spinning.  The 
Archduke  came  daily  to  him  with  speeches,  inju- 
ries to  relate,  injuries  to  impart.  King  Richard 
hardly  winked  an  eyelid.  The  Archduke  hinted 
at  ransom,  and  Richard  watched  the  wall  behind 
his  head ;  he  spoke  of  letters  received  from  this 
great  man  or  that,  which  made  ransom  not  to  be 
thought  of;  and  Richard  went  to  sleep.  What 
are  you  to  do  with  a  man  who  meets  your  offers 
and  threats  with  the  same  vast  unconcern  ?  If  it 
is  matter  for  resentment,  Richard  gave  it ;  if  it  is 
a  matter  which  money  may  leaven,  it  is  to  be 
observed  that  while  Richard  offered  no  money 
his  enemies  offered  much. 

These  letters  to  the  Archduke  were  not  of  the 
sort  which  fill  the  austere  folios  of  the  Codex 
Diplomaticus  as  bins  with  bran,  or  make  Rymer's 
book  as  dry  as  Ezekiel's  valley.     They  were  pun- 

350 


CH.  XII  STRIFE   IN   THE   DARK  351 

gent,  pertinent,  allusive,  succinct,  supplementing, 
as  with  meat,  those  others.  The  Count  of  Saint- 
Pol  wrote,  for  instance,  *  Kinsman,  kill  the  killer 
of  your  kin,'  and  could  hardly  have  expressed 
himself  better  under  the  circumstances.  King 
Philip  of  France  sent  two  letters :  one  by  a  her- 
ald, very  long,  and  chiefly  in  the  language  of  the 
Epistle  of  Saint  James,  designed  for  the  Codex. 
The  other  lay  in  the  vest  of  a  Savigniac  monk, 
and  was  to  this  effect :  *  In  a  ridded  acre  the  hus- 
bandman can  sow  with  hopes  of  good  harvesting. 
When  the  corn  is  garnered  he  calleth  about 
him  his  friends  and  fellow-labourers,  and  cheer 
abounds.  Labour  and  pray.  I  pray.'  Last  came 
a  limping  pilgrim  from  Aquitaine,  whose  hat  was 
covered  with  metal  saints,  and  in  his  left  shoe  a 
wad  of  parchment,  which  had  made  him  limp. 
This  proved  to  be  a  letter  from  John  Count  of 
Mortain,  which  said,  '  Now  I  see  in  secret.  But 
when  I  am  come  into  my  kingdom  I  will  reward 
openly.'  The  Archduke  was  by  no  means  a  wise 
man  ;  but  it  was  not  easy  to  know  something  of 
European  politics  and  mistake  the  meaning  of 
letters  like  these.  If  it  was  a  question  of  money, 
here  was  money.  And  imagine  now  the  Arch- 
duke, bursting  with  the  urgent  secrets  of  so  many 
princes,  making  speeches  about  them — through 
all  of  which  King  Richard  slumbered !  '  Damn 
it,  he  flouts  me,  does  he  ? '  said  Austria  at  last ; 
and  left  him  alone.  From  that  moment  Richard 
began  to  sing. 

Let  us  do  no  wrong  to  Luitpold:  it  was  not 
merely  a  question  of  money,  but  money  turned  the 
scale.     Not  only  had  Richard  mortally  affronted 


352  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

his  gaoler;  he  had  innumerably  offended  him. 
The  Archduke  was  punctilious ;  Richard  with  his 
petulant  foot  stamped  on  every  little  point  he 
laboured,  or  else,  like  a  buttress,  let  him  labour 
them  in  vain.  He  did  not  for  a  moment  disguise 
his  fatigue  in  Luitpold's  presence,  his  relief  at  his 
absence,  or  his  unconcern  with  his  properties. 
This  galled  the  man.  He  could  not,  for  the  life 
of  him,  affect  indifference  to  Richard's  indiffer- 
ence. When  the  messenger,  therefore,  arrived 
from  the  Old  Man  of  Musse,  the  insolence  of  the 
message  was  most  unfortunate.  The  Archduke, 
angry  as  he  was,  could  afford  to  be  cool.  He 
played  on  the  Old  Man  the  very  part  which  Rich- 
ard had  played  on  him  —  that  is,  treated  him  and 
his  letter  as  though  they  were  not. 

Then  he  broke  with  Richard  altogether;  and 
then  came  Gilles  de  Gurdun  with  secret  words 
and  offers. 

The  Archduke  drained  his  beer-horn,  and  with 
his  big  hand  wrung  his  beard  dry.  He  winked 
hard  at  Gilles,  whom  he  thought  to  be  a  hired 
assassin  of  deplorable  address  sent,  probably,  by 
Count  John. 

*  Are  you  angry  enough  to  do  what  you  pro- 
pose } '  he  asked  him.     *  I  am  not,  let  me  tell  you.' 

*  I  have  been  trying  to  kill  him  for  four  years,' 
said  Gilles. 

'  And  are  you  man  enough,  my  fellow  ? '  Gilles 
cast  down  his  eyes. 

*  I  have  not  been  man  enough  yet,  since  he 
still  lives.  I  think  I  am  now.'  Then  there  was 
a  pause. 

*  What  is  your  price  ? '  asked  Luitpold  after  this. 


CH.  xn  STRIFE  IN  THE   DARK  353 

Gilles  said,  '  I  have  no  price  * ;  and  the  Arch- 
duke, '  You  suit  my  humour  exactly.' 

Richard,  I  say,  had  begun  to  sing  from  the  day 
he  was  sure  that  the  Archduke  had  given  him  up. 
Physical  relief  may  have  had  something  to  do  with 
that,  but  moral  certainty  had  more.  What  made 
him  fume  or  freeze  was  doubt.  There  was  very 
little  room  for  doubt  just  now  but  that  his  ene- 
mies would  prove  too  many  for  Austria's  scruples. 
His  friends  ?  He  was  not  aware  that  he  had  any 
friends.  Des  Barres,  Gaston,  Auvergne,  Milo.f^ 
What  did  they  amount  to.?  His  sister  Joan,  his 
mother,  his  brothers  ?  Here  he  shrugged,  know- 
ing his  own  race  too  well.  He  had  never  heard 
of  the  Angevin  who  helped  any  Angevin  but 
himself.  Lastly,  Jehane.  He  had  lost  her  by  his 
own  fault  and  her  extreme  nobility.  Let  her  go, 
glorious  among  women !  He  was  alone.  Odd 
creature,  he  began  to  sing. 

Singing  like  a  genius  to  the  broad  splash  of  sun- 
light on  brickwork,  Gilles  de  Gurdun  found  him. 
Richard  was  sitting  on  a  bench  against  the  wall, 
one  knee  clasped  in  his  hands,  his  head  thrown 
back,  his  throat  rippling  with  the  tide  of  his 
music.  He  looked  as  fresh  and  gallant  a  figure 
as  ever  in  his  life  ;  his  beard  trimmed  sharply,  his 
strong  hair  brushed  back,  his  doublet  green,  his 
trunks  of  fine  leather,  his  shoes  of  yet  finer.  The 
song  he  was  upon  was  Lz  Chastel  d  'Amors,  which 
runs  — 

Las  portas  son  de  parlar 
Al  eissir  e  al  entrar  : 
Qui  gen  non  sab  razonar, 

2A 


354  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

Defers  li  ven  a  estar. 

E  las  claus  son  de  prejar : 

Ab  eel  obron  li  cortes  — 

and  so  on  through  many  verses,  made  continuous 
by  the  fact  that  the  end  of  each  sixth  line  forms 
the  rhyme  of  the  next  five.  Now,  Gilles  knew 
nothing  of  Southern  minstrelsy,  and  if  he  had, 
the  pitch  he  was  screwed  to  would  have  shrilled 
such  knowledge  out  of  him.  At  *  Defors  li  ven  a 
estar'  he  came  in,  and  sturdily  forward.  Richard 
saw  him  and  put  up  his  hand :  on  went  the  ham- 
mered rhymes  — 

E  las  claus  son  de  prejar : 
Ab  eel  obron  li  cortes. 

Here  was  a  little  break.  Gilles,  very  dark,  took  a 
step ;  up  shot  Richard's  warning  hand  — 

Dedinz  la  clauson  qu'i  es 

Son  las  mazos  dels  borges  .  .  , 

On  went  the  exulting  voice  after  the  new  rhymes, 
gayer  and  yet  more  gay.  Li  C has tel d' Amors  has 
twelve  linked  verses,  and  King  Richard,  wound 
up  in  their  music,  sang  them  all.  When  at  last 
he  had  stopped,  he  said,  '  Now,  Gurdun,  what  do 
you  want  here } ' 

Gilles  came  a  step  or  two  of  his  way,  and  so 
again  a  step  or  two,  and  so  again,  by  jerks. 
When  he  was  so  near  that  it  was  to  be  seen  what 
he  had  in  his  right  hand,  the  King  got  up.  Gilles 
saw  that  he  had  light  fetters  on  his  ankles  which 
could  not  stop  his  walking.  Richard  folded  his 
arms. 

*  Oh,  Gurdun,'  he  said,  *  what  a  fool  you  are.' 


CH.  XII  STRIFE   IN  THE  DARK  355 

Gurdun  vented  a  sob  of  rage,  and  flung  himself 
forward  at  his  enemy.  He  was  a  shorter  man, 
but  very  thickset,  with  arms  like  steel.  He  had 
a  knife,  rage  Kke  a  thirst,  he  was  free.  Richard, 
as  he  came  on,  hit  him  full  on  the  chin,  and  sent 
him  flying.  Gurdun  picked  himself  up  again,  his 
mouth  twitching,  his  eyes  so  small  as  to  be  like 
shts.  Knife  in  hand  he  leaned  against  the  wall 
to  fetch  up  his  breath. 

*  Well,'  said  Richard,  *  Have  you  had  enough  ?  * 

*  Yes,  you  wolf,'  said  Gurdun,  '  I  shall  wait  till 
it  is  dark.' 

*  I  think  it  may  suit  you  better,'  was  the  King's 
comment  as  he  sat  down  on  the  bed.  Gurdun 
squatted  by  the  wall,  watching  him.  After  about 
an  hour  of  humming  airs  to  himself  Richard  lay 
full  length,  and  in  a  short  time  Gilles  ascertained 
that  he  was  asleep.  This  brought  tears  into  the 
man's  eyes;  he  began  to  cry  freely.  Virgin 
Mary !  Virgin  Mary !  why  could  he  not  kill  this 
frozen  devil  of  a  king  ?  Was  there  a  race  in  the 
world  which  bred  such  men,  to  sleep  with  the 
knife  at  the  throat }  He  rose  to  his  feet,  went  to 
look  at  the  sleeper;  but  he  knew  he  could  not  da 
his  work.  He  ranged  the  room  incessantly,  and 
at  every  second  or  third  turn  brought  up  short 
by  the  bed.  Sometimes  he  flashed  up  his  long 
knife;  it  always  stayed  the  length  of  his  arm, 
then  flapped  down  to  his  flank  in  dejection.  *  If 
he  wakes  not  I  must  go  away.  I  cannot  do  it  so,* 
he  told  himself,  as  finally  he  sat  down  by  the 
wall.  It  grew  dusk.  He  was  tired,  sick,  giddy; 
his  head  dropped,  he  slept.  When  he  woke  up, 
as  with  a  snort  he  did,  it  was  inky  dark.     Now 


356  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

was  the  time,  not  even  God  could  see  him  now. 
He  turned  himself  about ;  inch  by  inch  he  crept 
forward,  edging  along  by  the  bed's  edge.  Pain- 
fully he  got  on  his  knees,  threw  up  his  head. 
*  Jehane,  my  robbed  lost  soul ! '  he  howled,  and 
stabbed  with  all  his  might.  King  Richard,  cat- 
like behind  him,  caught  him  by  the  hair,  and 
cuffed  his  ears  till  they  sang. 

'  Ah,  dastard  cur !  Ah,  mongrel !  Ah,  white- 
galled  Norman  eft !  God's  feet,  if  I  pommel  you 
for  this!'  Pommel  him  he  did;  and,  having 
drawn  blood  at  his  ears,  he  turned  him  over  his 
knee  as  if  he  had  been  a  schoolboy,  and  lathered 
his  rump  with  a  chair-leg.  This  humiliating 
punishrnent  had  humiliating  effects.  Gilles  be- 
lieved himself  a  boy  in  the  cloister-school  again, 
with  his  smock  up.  '  Mea  culpa,  mea  culpa ! 
Hey,  reverend  father,  have  pity ! '  he  began  to 
roar.  Dropping  him  at  last,  Richard  tumbled 
him  on  to  the  bedc  *  Blubber  yourself  to  sleep, 
clown,'  he  told  him.  *  Blessed  ass,  I  have  heard 
you  snoring  these  two  hours,  snoring  and  root- 
ling over  your  jack-knife.  Sleep,  man.  But  if 
you  rootle  again  I  flog  again:  mind  you  that.' 
Gilles  slept  long,  and  was  awoken  in  full  light  by 
the  sound  of  King  Richard  calling  for  his  breakfast. 

The  gaoler  came  pale-faced  in.  *  A  thousand 
pardons,  sire,  a  thousand  pardons ' 

*  Bring  my  food,  Dietrich,'  says  Richard,  *  and 
send  the  barber.  Also,  the  next  time  the  Arch- 
duke desires  murder  done  let  him  find  a  fellow 
who  knows  his  trade.  This  one  is  a  bungler. 
Here's  the  third  time  to  my  knowledge  he  has 
missed.     Off  with  you.' 


CH.  XII  STRIFE   IN   THE   DARK  357 

Gilles  lay  face  downwards,  abject  on  the  bed. 
In  came  the  King's  breakfast,  a  jug  of  wine,  some 
white  bread.  The  King's  beard  was  trimmed,  his 
hair  brushed,  fresh  clothes  put  on.  He  dismissed 
his  attendants,  crossed  over  the  room  like  a  stalk- 
ing cat,  and  gave  Gilles  a  clap  behind  which  made 
him  leap  in  the  air. 

*  Get  up,  Gurdun,'  said  Richard.  *  Tell  me  that 
you  are  ashamed  of  yourself,  and  then  listen  to 
me.' 

Gilles  went  down  on  one  knee.  *  God  knows, 
my  lord  King,'  he  mumbled,  '  that  I  have  done 
shamefully  by  you.'  He  got  up,  his  face  clouded, 
his  jaw  went  square.  '  But  not  more  shamefully, 
by  the  same  God,  than  you  have  done  by  me.' 

The  King  looked  at  him.  *  I  have  never  justi- 
fied myself  to  any  man,'  he  said  quietly,  '  nor  shall 
I  now  to  you.  I  take  the  consequences  of  all  my 
deeds  when  and  as  they  come.  But  from  the  like 
of  you  none  will  ever  come.  I  speak  of  men. 
Now  I  will  tell  you  this  very  plainly.  The  next 
tirye  you  cross  my  path  adversely,  I  shall  kill  you. 
You  are  a  nuisance,  not  because  you  desire  my 
life,  but  because  you  never  get  it.  Try  no  more, 
Gurdun.' 

'  Where  is  Jehane,  my  lord  ? '  said  Gurdun,  very 
black. 

*  I  cannot  tell  you  where  the  Countess  of  Anjou 
may  be,'  he  was  answered.  '  She  is  not  here,  and 
is  not  in  France.     I  believe  she  is  in  Palestine.' 

*  Palestine !  Palestine  !  Lord  Christ,  have  you 
turned  her  away  ? '  Gilles  cried,  beside  himself. 
Again  King  Richard  looked  at  him,  but  after- 
wards shrugged. 


358  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

*You  speak  after  your  kind.  Now,  Gurdun, 
get  you  home.  Go  to  my  friends  in  Normandy, 
to  my  brother  Mortain,  to  my  brother  of  Rouen ; 
bid  them  raise  a  ransom.  I  must  go  back.  You 
have  disturbed  me,  sickened  me  of  assassination, 
reminded  me  of  what  I  intended  to  forget.  If  I 
get  any  more  assassins  I  shall  break  prison  and 
the  Archduke's  head,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  do 
that,  as  I  have  no  grudge  against  him.  Find  Des 
Barres,  Gurdun,  raise  all  Normandy.  Find  above 
all  Mercadet,  and  set  him  to  work  in  Poictou. 
As  for  England,  my  brother  Geoffrey  will  see  to 
it.  Aquitaine  I  leave  to  the  Lord  of  Beam.  Off 
now,  Gurdun,  do  as  I  bid  you.  But  if  you  speak 
another  word  to  me  of  Madame  d'Anjou,  by 
God's  death  I  will  wring  your  neck.  You  are  not 
fit  to  speak  of  me :  how  should  you  dare  speak  of 
her  ?  You  1  A  stab-i'-the-dark,  a  black-entry 
cutter  of  throats,  a  hedgerow  knifer !  Foh,  you 
had  better  speak  nothing,  but  be  off.  Stay,  I  will 
call  the  castellan.'  And  so  he  did,  roaring  through 
the  key-hole.     The  gaoler  came  up  flying. 

'  Conduct  this  animal  into  the  fresh  air,  Dietrich,' 
said  King  Richard ;  '  send  him  about  his  business. 
Tell  your  master  he  will  now  do  better.  And 
when  that  is  done,  let  me  go  on  to  the  leads  that 
I  may  walk  a  little.' 

Gurdun  followed  his  guide  speechless ;  but  the 
Archduke  was  very  vexed,  and  declined  to  see 
him.  '  I  decide  to  be  a  villain,  and  he  makes  me 
a  vain  villain,'  said  the  great  man.  *  Bid  him  go 
to  the  devil.'  So  then  Gilles  with  head  hanging 
came  out  of  the  gate,  and  Jehane  leaped  from  her 
angle  to  confront  him. 


CH.  xn  STRIFE   IN  THE   DARK  359 

To  say  that  he  dropped  like  a  shot  bird  is  to 
say  wrong  ;  for  a  bird  drops  compact,  but  Gilles 
went  down  disjunct.  His  jaw  dropped,  his  hands 
dropped,  his  knees,  last  his  head.  '  Ha,  Heart  of 
Jesus  ! '  he  said,  and  covered  his  eyes.  She  began 
to  talk  like  a  hissing  snake. 

'  What  have  you  done  with  the  King  ?  What 
have  you  done  ? '  King  Richard  on  the  roof 
peered  down  and  saw  her.  He  turned  quite 
grey. 

'  I  could  do  nothing,  Jehane,'  Gilles  whimpered; 
'  I  went  to  kill  him.' 

*  You  fool,  I  know  it.  I  saw  you  go.  I  could 
have  stayed  you  as  I  do  now.     But  I  would  not.* 

*  Why  not,  Jehane  ? ' 

She  spurned  him  with  a  look.  *  Because  I  love 
King  Richard,  and  know  you,  Gilles,  what  you 
can  do  and  what  not.     Pshutt !     You  are  a  rat' 

'  Rat,'  says  Gilles,  '  I  may  be,  but  a  rat  may  be 
offended.  This  king  robbed  me  of  you,  and  slew 
my  father  and  brothers.  Therefore  I  hated  him. 
Is  it  not  enough  reason } ' 

Her  eyes  grew  cold  with  scorn.  *  Your  father.'^ 
Your  brothers  ? '  she  echoed  him.  *  Pooh,  I  have 
given  him  more  than  that.  I  have  burned  my 
heart  quite  dry.  I  have  accepted  shame,  I  have 
sold  my  body  and  counted  as  nothing  my  soul. 
Robbed  you  ?  Nay,  but  I  robbed  myself,  and 
robbed  him  also,  when  I  cut  him  out  of  my  own 
flesh.  From  the  day  when,  through  my  prayers 
against  blood,  he  was  affianced  to  the  Spanish 
woman,  I  held  him  off  me,  though  I  drained  more 
blood  to  do  it.  Then,  that  not  sufficing  to  save 
him,  I  gave  myself  to  the  Old  Man  of  Musse ;  to 


360  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

be  his  wife,  one  of  his  women,  do  you  understand  ? 
His  wife,  I  say.  And  you  talk  now  of  father  and 
brothers  and  your  robbery,  to  me  who  am  become 
an  old  man's  toy,  one  of  many  ?  What  are  they 
to  my  soul,  and  my  heart's  blood,  to  my  life  and 
light,  and  the  glory  that  I  had  from  Richard? 
Oh,  you  fool,  you  fool,  what  do  you  know  of  love  ? 
You  think  it  is  embracing,  clipping,  playing  with 
a  chin :  you  fool,  it  is  scorching  your  heart  black, 
it  is  welling  blood  by  drops,  it  is  fasting  in  sight 
of  food,  death  where  sweet  life  offers,  shame  held 
more  honourable  than  honour.  Oh,  Saint  Mary, 
star  of  women,  what  do  men  know  of  love  ? ' 
Dry-eyed  and  pinched,  she  looked  about  her  as  if 
to  find  an  answer  in  the  sullen  moors.  If  she  had 
looked  up  to  the  heavy  skies  she  might  have  had 
one ;  for  on  the  tower's  top  stood  King  Richard 
like  a  ghost. 

*  Listen  now  to  me,  Jehane,*  said  Gilles,  red  as 
fire.  *  I  have  hated  your  King  for  four  years,  and 
three  times  sought  his  life.  But  now  he  has 
beaten  me  altogether.  Too  strong,  too  much 
king,  for  a  man  to  dare  anything  singly  against 
him.  What !  he  slept,  and  I  could  not  do  it ;  and 
then  I  slept,  and  he  awoke  and  let  me  lie.  Then 
once  again  I  woke  and  thought  him  still  sleeping, 
and  stabbed  the  bed ;  and  he  came  behind  me, 
stealthy  as  a  cat,  and  trounced  me  over  his  knee 
like  a  child.  Oh,  oh,  Jehane,  he  is  more  than 
man,  and  I  by  so  much  less.  And  now,  and  now, 
he  sends  me  out  to  win  his  ransom  as  if  I  were 
an  old  lover  of  his,  and  I  am  going  to  do  it  I 
Why,  God  in  glory  look  down  upon  us,  what  is 
the  force  that  he  hath } ' 


CH.  XII  STRIFE   IN   THE  DARK  361 

Gilles  now  shivered  and  looked  about  him; 
but  Jehane,  having  mastered  her  breath,  smiled. 

'  He  is  King,'  she  said.  '  Come,  Gilles,  I  will 
go  with  you.  You  shall  find  the  Abbot  Milo, 
and  I  the  Queen-Mother.  I  have  the  ear  of 
her.' 

*  I  will  do  as  I  am  bid,  Jehane,'  said  the  cowed 
man,  '  because  I  needs  must' 

As  they  went  away  together.  King  Richard  on 
the  roof  threw  up  his  arms  to  the  sky,  howling  like 
a  night  wolf.  '  Now,  God,  Thou  hast  stricken 
me  enough.  Now  listen  Thou,  I  shall  strike  if 
I  can.' 

After  a  while  came  Cogia  the  Assassin ;  to 
whom  Jehane  said,  '  Cogia,  I  must  take  a  journey 
with  this  man.  You  shall  put  us  on  the  way,  and 
wait  for  me  until  I  come  again.' 

'  Mistress,'  replied  Cogia,  '  I  am  your  slave. 
Do  as  you  will.' 

She  put  on  the  dress  of  a  religious,  Gilles  the 
'weeds  of  a  pilgrim  from  Jerusalem.  Then  Cogia 
bought  them  asses  in  Gratz  and  led  them  down  to 
Trieste.  They  found  a  ship  going  to  Bordeaux, 
went  on  board,  had  a  fair  passage,  passed  the 
Pillars  of  Hercules  on  their  tenth  day  out,  and 
were  in  the  Gironde  in  five  more.  At  Bordeaux 
they  separated.  Gilles  went  to  Poictiers  in  a 
company  of  pilgrims;  Jehane,  having  learned 
that  Queen  Berengere  was  at  Cahors,  turned  her 
face  to  the  Gascon  hills.  But  she  had  left  behind 
her  a  prisoner  to  whom  death  could  bring  the 
only  ransom  worth  a  thought. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

OF  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMEN 

*  Ask  me  no  more  how  I  did  in  those  days/ 
writes  Abbot  Milo.  '  Mercy  smile  upon  me  in 
the  article  of  death,  but  I  worked  for  the  ran- 
som of  King  Richard  as  (I  hope)  I  should  for 
that  of  King  Christ.  Many  an  abbey  of  Tou- 
raine  goes  lean  now  because  of  me;  many  a 
mass  is  wrought  in  a  pewter  chalice  that  Rich- 
ard might  come  home.  Yet  I  soberly  believe 
that  Madame  Alois,  King  Philip's  sister,  was 
precious  above  rubies  in  the  work.' 

I  think  he  is  right.  That  stricken  lady,  in 
the  habit  of  a  grey  nun  of  Fontevrault,  came 
by  night  to  Paris,  and  found  her  brother  with 
John  of  Mortain.  They  had  been  upon  the 
very  business.  Philip,  not  all  knave,  had  been 
moved  by  the  news  of  Richard's  immobility. 
He  had  had  some  of  De  Gurdun's  report. 

'  Christ-dieu,'  he  said,  *  a  great  king  calm  in 
chains !  And  my  brother  Richard.  Yet  God 
knows  I  hate  him.*  So  he  went  muttering  on. 
The  Count  edged  in  his  words  as  he  could. 

*  He  hates  you,  indeed,  sire.  He  hates  me. 
He  hates  all  of  us.' 

*  I  think  we  could  find  him  reasons  for  that, 
my  friend,  if  he  lacked  them,'  said  Philip  shrewdly. 

*  Do  you  know  that  De  Gurdun  is  in  Poictou, 
come  from  Styria  ? ' 

362 


CH.  XIII  LOVE   OF  WOMEN  363 

Count  John  said  nothing;  but  he  did  know- 
it  very  well.  When  they  announced  Madame 
Alois  the  King  started,  and  the  Count  went 
sick  white. 

'  We  will  receive  her  Grace/  said  Philip,  and 
advanced  towards  the  door  for  the  purpose.  In 
she  came  in  her  old  eager,  stumbling,  secret  way, 
knelt  in  a  hurry  to  kiss  her  brother's  hand,  then 
rose  and  looked  intently  at  John  of  Mortain. 

The  King  said,  'You  visit  us  late,  sister;  but 
your  occasions  may  drive  you.* 

*  They  do  drive  me,  sire.  I  have  seen  the 
Sieur  Gilles  de  Gurdun.  King  Richard  is  in 
hold  at  Gratz,  and  must  be  delivered.' 

*  By  you,  sister  ? ' 

*  By  me,  sire.' 

*  You  grow  Christian,  Madame.* 

*  It  is  my  need,  sire.  I  have  done  King  Rich- 
ard a  great  wrong.     This  is  not  tolerable  to  me.' 

'  Eh,'  says  Philip,  *  not  so  fast.  Was  no  wrong 
done  to  you  ? ' 

'  Wrong  was  done  me/  said  the  white  girl, 
*but  not  by  him.' 

'  The  wrong  lies  in  his  blood.  What  though 
the  wrong-doer  is  dead?  His  blood  must  an- 
swer it.' 

Alois  shivered,  and  so,  for  that  matter,  did 
one  other  there.  She  answered,  *  I  pray  for  his 
death.  Dying  or  dead,  his  blood  shall  answer 
it.' 

*  You  speak  darkly,  sister/ 

*  I  live  in  the  dark/  said  Alois. 

'  King  Richard  has  affronted  my  house  in  you, 
sister/ 


364  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

But  she  said,  '  I  have  affronted  King  Richard 
through  his  house.' 

*  Is  this  all  you  have  to  say,  Alois  ? ' 

*  No,  sire,'  she  told  him,  with  a  fierce  and  biting 
look  at  Mortain ;  *  but  it  is  all  I  need  say  now.' 

It  was.  A  cry  broke  strangling  from  the 
Count.  '  Ha,  Jesus !  Sire !  Save  my  brother ! ' 
The  wretch  could  bear  no  more.  The  woman's 
eyes  were  like  swords. 

King  Philip  marvelled.  *  You  ! '  he  said, '  you !  * 
John  put  out  his  hands.  *  Oh,  sire,  Madame  is 
in  the  right.  I  am  a  wicked  man.  I  must  make 
my  brother  amends.     He  must  be  saved.' 

King  Philip  scratched  his  head.  '  Who  is  in 
the  dark  if  not  I?  I  will  deal  with  you  presently, 
Mortain.  But  you,  Madame,'  he  turned  hotly  on 
the  lady,  'you  must  be  plainer.  What  is  your 
zeal  for  the  King  of  England.?  He  is  your 
cousin,  and  might  have  been  your  husband.' 
Alois  flinched,  but  Philip  went  roughly  on.  *  Do 
you  owe  him  thanks  that  he  is  not  ?  Is  this  what 
spurs  you  ? ' 

She  looked  doubtfully.  *  I  owe  him  honour, 
Philip,'  she  said  slowly.     *  He  is  a  great  king.' 

'  Great  king,  great  king  ! '  Philip  broke  out ; 
*pest!  and  great  rascal.  There  is  no  truth  in 
him,  no  bottom,  no  thanks,  no  esteem.  He 
counts  me  as  nothing.' 

'  To  him,'  said  Alois,  *  you  are  nothing.' 

*  Madame,'  said  Philip,  '  I  am  King  of  France, 
your  brother  and  lord.  He  is  my  vassal;  owes 
fealty  and  breaks  it,  signs  treaties  and  levies  war ; 
hectors  me  and  laughs,  kills  my  servants  and 
laughs.     He  is  my  cousin,  but  I  am  his  suzerain. 


CH.  XIII  LOVE  OF  WOMEN  365 

I  do  not  choose  to  be  mocked.  Th^re  will  be 
no  rest  for  this  kingdom  while  he  is  in  it'  He 
stopped,  then  turned  to  the  shaking  man.  *As 
for  you,  Count  of  Mortain,  I  must  have  an  ex- 
planation. My  sister  loves  her  enemies:  it  is 
a  Christian  virtue.  I  have  not  found  it  one  of 
yours.  You,  perhaps,  fear  your  enemies,  even 
caged.  Is  this  your  thought?  You  have  made 
yourself  snug  in  Aquitaine,  Count;  you  are  not 
unknown  in  Anjou,  I  think.  Do  you  begin  to 
wish  that  you  might  he?  Are  you,  by  chance, 
a  little  oversnug  ?  I  candidly  say  that  I  prefer 
you  for  my  neighbour  in  those  parts.  I  can 
deal  with  you.     Do  me  the  obedience  to  speak.' 

*  Sire,'  said  the  Count,  spreading  out  his  hands, 

*  Madame  Alois  has  turned  me.  I  am  a  sinner, 
but  I  can  restore.  My  brother  is  my  lord,  a 
clement  prince ' 

'  Pish ! '  said  King  Philip,  and  gave  him  his 
back. 

*  Madame,   go   to   bed,'   he  said  to  his  sister. 

*  I  shall  pay  dear  for  it,  but  I  will  not  oppose  my 
cousin's  ransom.  Be  content  with  that.'  Alois 
slipped  out.  Then  he  turned  upon  John  like  a 
flash  of  flame. 

'  Now,  Mortain,'  he  said,  '  what  proof  is  there 
of  that  old  business  of  my  sister's  ? ' 

John  showed  him  a  scared  eye —  the  milky  eye 
of  a  drowned  man.  *  Ah,  God,  sire,  there  is 
none  at  all  —  none  —  none  ! '  He  had  no  breath. 
Philip  raised  his  voice. 

'  Look  to  yourself ;  I  shall  not  help  you.  Leave 
my  lands,  go  where  you  will,  hide,  bury  your  head, 
drown  yourself.     If  I  spoke  what  lies  bottomed 


366  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

in  my  heart  I  should  kill  you  with  mere  words. 
But  there  is  worse  for  you  in  store.  There  will 
be  war  in  France,  if  I  know  Richard ;  but  mark 
what  I  say,  after  that  there  shall  be  war  in  Eng- 
land.' The  thought  of  Richard  overwhelmed 
him :  he  gave  a  queer  little  sigh.  '  See,  now, 
how  much  love  and  what  lives  of  women  are 
spent  for  one  tall  man,  who  gives  nothing,  and 
asks  nothing,  but  waits,  looking  lordly,  while  they 
give  and  give  and  give.  Let  Richard  come,  since 
women  cry  for  wounds.  But  you  ! '  He  flamed 
again.  '  Get  you  to  hell :  you  are  all  a  liar. 
Avoid  me,  lest  I  learn  more  of  you.' 

'  Dear  sire,'  John  began.  Philip  loathed  him. 
*  Ah,  get  you  gone,  snake,  or  I  tread  upon  you,* 
he  said ;  and  the  prince  avoided.  So  much  was 
wrought  by  Alois  of  France. 

No  visitation  of  a  dead  woman  could  have 
shocked  Queen  Berengere  more  suddenly  than 
the  apparition  of  a  tall  nun,  when  she  saw  it 
was  Jehane.    She  put  her  hand  upon  her  heart. 

'  Ah,'  she  said,  '  you  trouble  me  again,  Jehane  ? 
Am  I  never  to  rest  from  you  ? ' 

Jehane  did  not  falter.  '  Do  I  have  any  rest  ? 
The  King  is  chained  in  Styria;  he  must  be 
redeemed.  It  is  your  turn.  I  saved  his  life  for 
you  once  by  selling  my  own.  Now  I  am  the 
wife  of  an  old  man,  with  nothing  more  to  sell. 
Do  you  sell  something.' 

*Sell?  Sell?  What  can  I  sell  that  he  will 
buy  ? '  whined  Berengere.     *  He  loves  me  not.' 

*  Well,'  said  Jehane,  '  what  has  that  to  do  with 
it  ?     Do  you  not  love  him  ? ' 


CH.  XIII  LOVE  OF  WOMEN  367 

*  I  am  his  miserable  wife.  I  have  nothing  to  selL 

*  Sell  your  pride,  Berengere,'  says  Jehane. 
Berengere  bit  her  lip. 

*  You  speak  strangely  to  me,  woman.* 

Says  Jehane,  '  I  am  grown  strange.  Once  I 
was  a  girl  dishonoured  because  I  loved.  Now  I 
am  a  wife  greatly  honoured  because  I  do  not 
love.' 

'  You  do  not  love  your  husband  ? ' 

*  How  should  I,'  said  Jehane,  *  when  I  love 
yours.?  But  I  honour  my  husband,  and  watch 
over  his  honour:  he  is  good  to  me.' 

'  You  dare  to  tell  me  that  you  love  the  King  ? 
Ah,  you  have  been  with  him  again ! '  Jehane 
looked  critically  at  her. 

'I  have  not  seen  him,  nor  ever  shall  till  he 
is  dead.  But  we  must  save  him,  you  and  I, 
Berengere.' 

Berengere,  the  little  toy  woman,  when  she  saw 
how  noble  the  other  stood,  and  how  inflexible, 
came  wheedling  to  her,  with  hands  to  touch  her 
chin. 

*  Jehane,  sister,  let  it  be  my  part  to  save 
Richard.  Indeed  I  love  him.  You  have  done 
so  much,  to  you  now  he  should  be  nothing.  Let 
me  do  it,  let  me  do  it,  please,  Jehane ! '  So  she 
stroked  and  coaxed.     The  tall  nun  smiled. 

'  Must  I  always  be  giving,  and  my  well  never 
be  dry  ?  Yes,  yes,  I  will  trust  you.  No ;  you 
shall  not  kiss  me  yet ;  I  have  not  done.  Go  to 
the  Queen-Mother,  go  to  the  King  your  brother. 
Go  not  to  the  French  King,  nor  to  Count  John. 
He  is  more  cruel  than  hysenas,  and  more  a  coward. 
Find  the  Abbot  Milo,  find  the  Lord  of  Bearn, 


368  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

find  the  Sieur  des  Barres,  find  Mercadet.  Raise 
England,  sell  your  jewels,  your  crown;  eh,  God 
of  Gods,  sell  your  pretty  self.  The  Queen- 
Mother  is  a  fierce  woman,  bit  she  will  help  you. 
Do  these  things  faithfully,  and  I  leave  King 
Richard's  life  in  your  hands.  May  I  trust  you } ' 
The  other  girl  looked  up  at  her,  wistfully,  still 
touching  her  chin. 

'  Kiss  me,  Jehane  ! ' 

*  Yes,  yes,  I  will  kiss  you  now.  Frozen  Heart. 
You  are  thawed.' 

Jehane,  going  back  to  Bordeaux,  found  Cogia 
with  a  ship,  wherein  she  sailed  for  Tortosa.  But 
Berengere,  Queen  of  England^  played  a  queen's 
part. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

HOW  THE  LEOPARD  WAS  LOOSED 

The  burning  thought  of  Jehane  cut  off,  sixty 
feet  below  him,  yet  far  as  she  could  ever  be,  swept 
across  Richard's  mind  Hke  a  roaring  wind,  and 
ridded  the  room  for  wilder  guests.  In  came 
stalking  Might-have-been  and  No-more,  holding 
each  by  a  shrinking  shoulder  the  delicate  maid 
of  his  first  delight,  Jehane,  lissom  in  a  thin  gown  ; 
Jehane  like  a  bud,  with  her  long  hair  alight. 
Her  hair  was  loose,  her  face  aflame;  she  was 
very  young,  very  much  to  be  kissed,  fresh  and 
tall  —  Oh,  God,  the  mere  loveliness  of  her !  In 
came  the  scent  of  wet  stubbles,  the  fresh  salt  air 
of  Normandy,  the  pale  gold  of  the  shaws,  the 
pale  sky,  the  mild  October  sun.  He  felt  again 
the  stoop,  again  the  lift  of  her  to  his  horse,  again 
the  stern  ride  together;  saw  again  the  Dark 
Tower,  and  all  the  love  and  sweet  pleasure  that 
they  made.  The  bride  in  the  church  turning  her 
proud  shy  head,  the  bride  in  his  arm,  clinging  as 
they  flew,  the  bride  in  the  tower,  the  crowned 
Countess,  the  nestling  mate  —  oh,  impossibly 
lost!  Inconceivably  put  away!  Eternally  his 
lover  and  bride ! 

Pity,  if  you  can,  this  lonely  heart,  this  king  in 
chains,  this  hot  Angevin,  son  of  Henry,  son  of 
Geoffrey,  son  of  Fulke,  this  Yea-and-Nay.     He 
2B  369 


370  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.ii 

who  dared  not  look  upon  the  city,  lest,  seeing,  he 
should  risk  all  to  take  it,  had  now  looked  upon 
the  bride  unaware,  and  could  not  touch  her.  The 
fragrance  of  her,  the  sacred  air  in  which  a  loved 
woman  moves,  had  floated  up  to  him :  his  by  all 
the  laws  of  hell,  in  spite  of  heaven ;  but  his  no 
more.  Such  nearness  and  such  deprivation  —  to 
see,  to  desire,  and  not  to  seize — flung  his  wits 
abroad ;  from  that  hour  his  was  a  lost  soul. 
Hungry,  empty-eyed,  ranging,  feverish,  he  lashed 
up  and  down  his  prison-room,  with  bare  teeth 
gleaming,  and  desperate  soft  strides.  No  thought 
he  had  but  mere  despair,  no  hope  but  the  mere 
ravin  of  a  beast.  He  was  across  the  room  in 
four ;  he  turned,  he  lunged  back ;  at  the  wall  he 
threw  up  his  head,  turned  and  lunged,  turned  and 
lunged  again.  He  was  always  at  it,  or  rocking 
on  his  bed.  No  hope,  nor  thought,  nor  reckoning 
had  he,  but  to  say  Yea  against  God,  Who  said 
him  Nay. 

So,  many  times,  had  he  stood,  fatal  enemy  of 
himself.  His  Yea  would  hold  fast  while  none 
accepted  it,  his  Nay  while  no  one  obeyed.  But  the 
supple  knees  of  men  sickened  him  of  his  own 
decree.  '  These  fools  accept  my  bidding :  the 
bidding  then  is  foolishness.'  So  when  Fate,  so 
when  God,  underwrote  his  bill,  Le  Roy  le  veult,  he 
scorned  himself  and  the  bill,  and  risked  wide 
heaven  to  make  either  nought. 

If  Austria  had  murdered  him  then,  it  had  per- 
haps been  well ;  but  his  enemies  being  silenced, 
his  friends  did  enemies'  work  unknowing,  by 
giving  him  scope  to  mar  himself.  The  ransom 
was  raised  at  the  price  of  blood  and  prayers,  the 


CH.  XIV  THE  LEOPARD  IS  LOOSE  371 

ransom  was  paid.  The  Earl  of  Leicester  and 
Bishop  of  SaHsbury  brought  it;  so  the  Leopard 
was  loosed.  With  a  quick  shake  of  the  head,  as 
if  doing  violence  to  himself,  he  turned  his  face 
westward  and  pushed  through  the  Low  Countries 
to  the  sea.  There  he  was  met  by  his  English 
peers,  by  Longchamp,  by  his  brother  of  Rouen, 
by  men  who  loved  and  men  who  feared ;  but  he 
had  no  word  for  any.  Grim  and  hungry  he 
stalked  through  the  lane  they  made  him,  on  to 
the  galley;  folded  in  his  cloak  there,  lonely  he 
paced  the  bridge.  He  was  rowed  to  the  west 
with  his  eyes  fixed  always  on  the  east,  away  from 
his  kingdom  to  where  he  supposed  his  longing  to 
be.  His  mother  met  him  at  Dunwich:  it  seemed 
he  knew  her  not.  *  My  son,  my  son  Richard,' 
she  said  as  she  knelt  to  him.  'Get  up,  Madame,' 
he  bid  her;  *  I  have  work  to  do.'  He  rode  sav- 
agely to  London  through  the  grey  Essex  flats ; 
had  himself  crowned  anew;  went  north  with  a 
force  to  lay  Lincolnshire  waste ;  levelled  castles, 
exacted  relentless  punishment,  exorbitant  tribute, 
the  last  acquittance.  He  set  a  red  smudge  over 
the  middle  of  England,  being  altogether  in  that 
country  three  months,  a  total  to  his  name  and 
reign  of  a  poor  six.  Then  he  left  it  for  good 
and  all,  carrying  away  with  him  grudging  men 
and  grudged  money,  and  leaving  behind  the 
memory  of  a  stone  face  which  always  looked  east, 
a  sword,  a  heart  aloof,  the  myth  of  a  giant  knight 
who  spoke  no  English  and  did  no  charity,  but  was 
without  fear,  cruelly  just,  and  as  cold  as  an  outland 
grave.  If  you  ask  an  Englishman  what  he  thinks 
of  Richard  Yea-and-Nay,  he  will  tell  you:  —  That 


372  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

was  a  king  without  pity  or  fear  or  /ove,  con- 
sidering neither  God,  nor  the  enemy  of  God, 
nor  unhappy  men.  If  the  fear  of  God  is  the 
beginning  of  wisdom,  the  love  of  Him  is  the  end 
of  it.  How  could  King  Richard  love  God,  who 
did  not  fear  enough;  or  we,  who  feared  too 
much  ? 

He  crossed  into  Normandy,  and  at  Honfleur 
was  met  by  them  who  loved  him  well ;  but  he 
repaid  them  ill.  Here  also  they  seemed  remote 
from  his  acquaintance.  Gaston  of  Beam,  with 
eyes  alight,  came  dancing  down  the  quay,  to  be 
the  first  to  kiss  him.  Richard,  shaking  with  fever 
(or  what  was  like  fever),  gave  him  a  burning  dry 
hand,  but  looked  away  from  him,  always  hungrily 
to  the  east.  Des  Barres,  who  had  thrown  oft 
allegiance  for  his  love,  got  no  thanks  for  it.  He 
may  have  known  Abbot  Milo  again,  or  Mercadet, 
his  lean  good  captain :  he  said  nothing  to  either 
of  them.  His  friends  were  confounded:  here  was 
the  gallant  shell  of  King  Richard  with  a  new 
insatiable  tenant.  So  indeed  they  found  it. 
There  was  great  business  to  be  done:  war,  the 
holding  of  Assise,  the- redressing  of  wrongs  from 
the  sea  to  the  Pyrenees.  He  did  it,  but  in  a  ter- 
rible, hasty  way.  It  appeared  that  every  formal 
act  required  fretted  him  to  waste,  that  every 
violent  act  allowed  gave  him  little  solace.  It 
appeared  that  he  was  living  desperately  fast,  . 
straining  to  fill  up  time,  rather  than  use  it,  towards  * 
some  unknown,  but  (to  him)  certain  end.  His 
first  act  in  Normandy,  after  new  coronation,  was 
to  besiege  the  border  castles  which  the  French 
had  filched  in  his  absence.     One  of  these  was 


CH.  XIV  THE   LEOPARD   IS  LOOSE  373 

Gisors.  He  would  not  go  near  Gisors ;  but  con- 
ducted the  leaguer  from  Rouen,  as  a  blindfold 
man  plays  chess ;  and  from  Rouen  he  reduced 
the  great  castle  in  six  weeks.  One  thing  more 
he  did  there,  which  gave  Gaston  a  clue  to  his 
mood.  He  sent  a  present  of  money,  a  great  sum, 
to  an  old  priest,  curate  of  Saint-Sulpice ;  and 
when  they  told  him  that  the  man  was  dead,  and 
a  great  part  of  the  church  he  had  served  burnt 
out  by  King  Philip,  his  face  grew  bleak  and 
withered,  and  he  said,  *  Then  I  will  burn  Philip 
out.'  He  had  Gisors,  castle,  churches,  burgher- 
holds,  the  whole  town,  burned  level  with  the 
ground.  There  was  not  to  be  a  stone  on  a  stone : 
and  it  was  so.  Gaston  of  Beam  slapped  his  thigh 
when  he  heard  of  this :  *  Now,'  he  said,  *  now  at 
last  I  know  what  ails  my  King.  He  has  seen  his 
lost  mistress.' 

He  did  so  ruthlessly  in  Normandy  that  he  went 
far  to  make  his  power  a  standing  dread  to  the  fair 
duchy.  On  the  rock  at  Les  Andelys  he  built  a 
huge  castle,  to  hang  there  like  a  thunder-cloud 
scowling  over  the  flats  of  the  Seine.  He  called 
it,  what  his  temper  gave  no  hint  of  (so  dry  with 
fever  he  was),  the  galliard  hold.  *  Let  me  see 
Chastel-Gaillard  stand  ready  in  a  year,'  he  said. 
*  Put  on  every  living  man  in  Normandy  if  need 
be.'  He  planned  it  all  himself  ;  rock  of  the  rock 
it  was  to  be,  making  the  sheer  yet  more  sheer. 
He  called  it  again  his  daughter,  daughter  of  his 
conception  of  Death.  *  Build,'  said  he,  *  my 
daughter  Gaillarda.  As  I  have  conceived  her 
let  the  great  birth  be.*  And  it  was  so.  For  a 
bitter  christening,  when  all  was  done,  he  had  his 


374  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

French  prisoners  thrown  down  into  the  fosse; 
and  they  say  that  it  rained  blood  upon  him  and 
his  artificers  as  they  stood  by  that  accursed  font. 
The  man  was  mad.  Nothing  stayed  him :  for  the 
first  time  since  they  who  still  loved  him  had  had 
him  back,  they  heard  him  laugh,  when  his  daugh- 
ter Gaillarda  was  brought  forth.  And,  '  Spine  of 
God,'  he  cried,  '  this  is  a  saucy  child  of  mine,  and 
saucily  shall  she  do  by  the  French  power.'  Then 
his  face  was  wrenched  by  pain,  as  with  a  sob  he 
said,  '  I  had  a  son  Fulke.'  Gaillarda  did  saucily 
enough,  to  tyrannise  over  ten  years  of  Philip's 
life ;  in  the  end,  as  all  know,  she  played  the 
strumpet,  and  served  the  enemies  of  her  father's 
house,  but  not  while  Richard  lived  to  rule  her. 

He  drove  Philip  into  a  truce  of  years,  pushed 
down  into  Touraine,  and  thence  went  to  Anjou, 
but  not  to  sit  still.  He  was  never  still,  never 
seemed  to  sleep,  or  get  any  of  the  solace  of  a  man. 
He  ate  voraciously,  but  was  not  nourished,  drank 
long,  but  was  never  drunken,  revelled  without 
mirth,  hunted,  fought,  but  got  no  joy.  He  utterly 
refused  to  see  the  Queen,  who  was  at  Cahors  in  the 
south.  *  She  is  no  wife  of  mine,'  he  said ;  '  let  her 
go  home/  Tentative  messages  were  brought  by 
very  tentative  messengers  from  his  brother  John. 
Good  service,  such  and  such,  had  been  done  in 
Languedoc ;  so  and  so  had  been  hanged,  or  gib- 
beted, so  and  so  rewarded:  what  had  our  dear 
and  royal  brother  to  say  ?  To  each  he  said  the 
same  thing :  '  Let  my  good  brother  come.'  But 
John  never  came. 

No  one  knew  what  to  make  of  him  ;  he  spoke 
to  none  of  his  affairs,  none  dared  speak  to  him. 


CH.  XIV  THE   LEOPARD   IS  LOOSE  375 

Milo  writes  in  his  book,  *  The  King  came  back 
from  Styria  as  one  who  should  arise  from  the  grave 
with  all  the  secrets  of  the  chattering  ghosts  to  brood 
upon.  Some  worm  gnawed  his  vitals,  some  mag- 
got had  drilled  a  hole  in  his  brain.  I  know  not 
what  possessed  him  or'  what  could  possess  him 
beside  a  devil.  This  I  know,  he  never  sent  to 
me  for  direction  in  spiritual  affairs,  nor  (so  far  as 
I  could  learn)  to  any  other  religious  man.  He 
never  took  the  Sacrament,  nor  seemed  to  want  it. 
But  be  sure  he  wanted  it  most  grievously.'  So, 
insanely  ridden,  he  lived  for  three  years,  one  of 
which  would  have  worn  a  common  man  to  the 
bones.  But  the  fire  still  crackled,  freely  fed  ;  his 
eyes  were  burning  bright,  his  mind  (when  he  gave 
it)  was  keen,  his  head  (when  he  lent  it)  seemed 
cool.  What  was  he  living  for.?  Did  Death  him- 
self look  askance  at  such  a  man  ?  Or  find  him 
a  good  customer  who  sent  him  so  many  souls  ? 
Two  things  only  were  clear :  he  sent  messenger 
after  messenger  to  Rome,  and  he  returned  his 
wife's  dowry.  Those  must  mean  divorce  or  re- 
pudiation of  marriage.  Certainly  the  Queen's 
party  took  it  so,  though  the  Queen  herself  clung 
pitifully  to  her  throne;  and  the  Queen's  party 
grew  the  larger  for  the  belief. 

Such  as  it  was,  the  Queen's  party  nested  in 
Aquitaine  and  the  Limousin,  with  all  the  turbulent 
lords  of  that  duchy  under  its  flag.  Prince  John 
himself  was  with  Berengere  at  Cahors,  biting  his 
nails  as  was  usual  with  him,  one  eye  watching  for 
Richard's  vengeance,  one  eye  wide  for  any  peace- 
offering  from  the  French  King.  He  dared  not 
act  overtly  against  Richard,  nor  dared  to  take  up 


376  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

arms  for  him.  So  he  waited.  The  end  was  not 
very  far  off. 

Count  Eustace  of  Saint-Pol  was  the  moving 
spirit  in  these  parts,  grown  to  be  an  astute,  un- 
scrupulous man  of  near  thirty  years.  His  spies 
kept  him  well  informed  of  Richard's  intolerable 
state ;  he  knew  of  the  embassies  to  Rome,  of  the 
fierce  murdering  moods,  of  the  black  moods,  of 
the  cheerless  revelry  and  fruitless  energy  of  this 
great  stricken  Angevin.  '  In  some  such  hag-ridden 
day  my  enemy  may  be  led  to  overtax  himself,'  he 
considered.  To  that  end  he  laid  a  trap.  He  seized 
and  fortified  two  hill-castles  in  the  Limousin,  be- 
tween which  lay  straggling  a  village  called  Chaluz. 
'  Let  us  get  Richard  down  here,'  was  his  plan.  *  He 
will  think  the  job  a  light  one,  and  we  shall  nip  him 
in  the  hills.'  The  Bishop  of  Beauvais  lent  a  hand, 
so  did  Adhemar  Viscount  of  Limoges,  and  Achard 
the  lord  of  Chaluz,  not  because  he  desired,  but 
because  he  was  forced  by  Limoges  his  suzerain. 
Another  forced  labourer  was  Sir  Gilles  de  Gurdun, 
who  had  been  found  by  Saint-Pol  doing  work  in 
Poictou.  and  won  over  after  a  few  trials. 

Now,  when  King  Richard  had  been  some  four, 
nearly  five,  years  at  home,  neither  nearer  to  his  rest 
nor  fitter  for  it  than  he  had  been  when  he  landed, 
he  got  word  from  the  south  that  a  great  treasure 
had  been  found  in  the  Limousin.  A  man  driving 
the  plough  on  a  hillside  by  Chaluz  had  upturned  a 
gold  table,  at  which  sat  an  emperor,  Charles  or 
another,  with  his  wife  and  children  and  the  lords 
of  his  council,  all  wrought  in  fine  gojd.  '  I  will 
have  that  golden  emperor,'  said  Richard,  '  having 
just  made  one  out  of  clay.     Let  him  be  sent  to  me.' 


CH.  XIV  THE   LEOPARD   IS   LOOSE  377 

He  spoke  carelessly,  as  they  all  thought,  simply  to 
get  in  his  gibe  at  the  new  Emperor  of  the  Romans, 
his  nephew,  whom  he  had  caused  to  be  chosen ; 
and  seeing  that  that  was  not  the  treasure  he  craved, 
it  is  like  enough.  But  somebody  took  his  word 
into  Languedoc,  and  somebody  brought  back  word 
(Saint-PoFs  word)  that  the  Viscount  of  Limoges, 
as  suzerain  of  Chaluz,  claimed  treasure-trove  in  it. 
*  Then  I  will  have  the  Viscount  of  Limoges  as  well,* 
said  Richard.  *  Let  him  be  sent  to  me,  and  the 
table  with  him.' 

The  Viscount  did  not  go.  '  We  have  him,  eh, 
we  have  him !  '  cheered  Saint-Pol,  rubbing  his 
hands  together. 

But  the  Viscount,  '  Be  not  so  very  sure.  He 
may  send  Gaston  or  Mercadet.  Or  if  the  fit  is  on 
him  he  may  come  in  force.  We  cannot  support 
that.  I  believe  that  you  have  played  a  fool's  part, 
Saint-Pol.' 

'  I  am  playing  a  gentleman's  part,'  repHed  the 
other,  '  to  entrap  a  villain.' 

'  Your  villain  is  six  foot  two  inches,  and  hath 
arms  to  agree,'  said  the  Viscount,  a  dry  man. 

'We  will  lay  him  by  the  heels,  Viscount;  we 
will  lop  those  long  arms,  cold-blooded,  desperate 
tyrant.  He  has  brought  two  lovely  ladies  to  mis- 
ery. Now  let  him  know  misery.'  Thus  Saint-Pol, 
feeling  very  sure  of  himself. 

The  Queen  was  at  Cahors  all  this  time,  living 
in  a  convent  of  white  nuns,  probably  happier  than 
she  had  ever  been  in  her  life  before.  Count  John 
kept  her  informed  of  all  Richard's  offences ;  Saint- 
Pol,  you  may  take  my  word  for  it,  was  so  exuber- 


378  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  il 

antly  on  her  side  that  it  must  be  almost  an  offence 
in  her  to  refuse  him.  But  she,  in  a  pure  mood 
of  abnegation,  would  hear  nothing  against  King 
Richard.  Even  when  she  was  told,  with  proof 
positive,  that  he  was  in  treaty  with  Rome,  she 
said  not  a  word  to  her  friends.  Secretly  she 
hugged  herself,  beginning  (like  most  women)  to 
find  pleasure  in  pain.  '  Let  him  deny  me,  let  him 
deny  me  thrice,  even  as  Thou  wert  denied,  sweet 
Lord  Jesus ! '  she  prayed  to  Christ  on  the  wall. 

*  So  denied.  Thou  didst  not  cease  from  loving.  I 
think  the  woman  in  Thee  outcried  the  man.'  She 
got  a  piercing  bliss  out  of  each  new  knife  stuck 
in  her  little  jumping  heart.  Once  or  twice  she 
wrote  to  Alois  of  France,  who  was  at  Fontevrault, 
in  her  King's   country.     '  Dear  lady,'  she  wrote, 

*  they  seek  to  enrage  my  lord  against  me.  If  you 
see  him,  tell  him  that  I  believe  nothing  that  I 
hear  until  I  receive  the  word  from  his  own 
glorious  mouth.'  Alois,  chilly  in  her  cell,  took 
no  steps  to  get  speech  with  King  Richard. 
'  Let  her  suffer :  I  suffer,'  she  would  say.  And 
then,  curiously  jealous  lest  more  pain  should 
be  Berengere's  than  was  hers,  a  daughter's 
of  France,  she  made  haste  to  send  assuring 
messages  to  Cahors.  Still  Berengere  sweetly 
agonised.  Saint-Pol  sent  her  letters  full  of  love 
and  duty,  enthusiastic,  breathing  full  arms  against 
her  wrongs.  But  she  always  replied,  *  Count  of 
Saint-Pol,  you  do  me  injury  in  seeking  to  redress 
your  own.  I  admit  nothing  against  my  lord  the 
King.  Many  hate  him,  but  I  love  him.  My  will 
is  to  be  meek.  Meekness  would  become  you 
very  well  also.'     Saint-Pol  could  not  think  so. 


CH.  XIV  THE   LEOPARD   IS  LOOSE  379 

Lastly  came  the  intelligence  that  King  Richard 
in  person  was  moving  south  with  a  great  force  to 
win  the  treasure  of  Chaluz.  The  news  was  true. 
Not  only  did  he  dwell  with  the  nervous  persist- 
ency of  the  afflicted  upon  the  wretched  gold 
Caesar,  but  with  clearer  political  vision  saw  a 
chance  of  subduing  all  Aquitaine.  '  Any  stick 
will  do,  even  Adhemar  of  Limoges,'  he  said,  not 
suspecting  Saint-Pol's  finger  in  the  dish ;  and 
told  Mercadet  to  summon  the  knights,  and  the 
knights  their  array.  Before  he  set  out  he  sent 
two  messengers  more  —  one  to  Rome,  and  one 
much  further  east.  Then  he  began  his  warlike 
preparations  with  great  heart. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CECONOMIC  REFLECTIONS  OF  THE  OLD  MAN  OF  MUSSE 

Jehane,  called  Gulzareen,  the  Golden  Rose,  had 
borne  three  children  to  the  Old  Man  of  Musse. 
She  was  suckling  the  third,  and  teaching  her 
eldest,  the  young  Fulke  of  Anjou,  his  Creed,  or 
as  much  of  it  as  she  could  remember,  when  there 
came  up  a  herald  from  Tortosa  who  bore  upon 
his  tabard  the  three  leopards  of  England.  He 
delivered  a  sealed  letter  thus  superscribed  — - 

*  La  tres-haulte  et  ma  tres  chere  dame,  Madame 
Jehane,  Comtesse  d'Anjou,  de  la  part  le  Roy 
Richard.     Hastez  tousjours.' 

The  letter  was  brought  to  the  Old  Man  as  he 
sat  in  his  white  hall  among  his  mutes. 

*  Fulness  of  Light,'  said  the  Vizier,  after  pros- 
trations, '  here  is  come  a  letter  from  the  Melek 
Richard,  sealed,  for  her  Highness  the  Golden 
Rose.' 

*  Give  it  to  me.  Vizier,'  said  the  Old  Man,  and 
broke  the  seal,  and  read  — 

*  Madame,  most  dear  lady,  in  a  very  little  while 
I  shall  be  free  from  my  desperate  nets ;  and  then 
you  shall  be  freed  from  yours.  Keep  a  great  heart. 
After  five  years  of  endeavour  at  last  I  come 
quickly.  —  Richard  of  Anjou.' 

The  Old  Man  sat  stroking  his  fine  beard  for 

380 


CH.xv  CECONOMIC   REFLECTIONS  381 

some  time  after  he  had  dismissed  his  Vizier. 
Looking  straight  before  him  down  the  length 
of  his  hall,  no  sound  broke  the  immense  quiet 
under  which  he  accomplished  his  meditations  of 
life  and  death.  The  Assassins  dreaming  by  the 
walls  breathed  freely  through  their  noses. 

As  a  small  voice  heard  from  far  off  in  these 
dreams  of  theirs,  the  voice  of  one  calling  from  a 
distant  height,  came  his  words, '  Cogia  ibn  Hassan 
ibn  Alnouk,  come  and  hearken.'  A  slim  young 
man  rose,  ran  forward  and  fell  upon  his  face  before 
the  throne.  Once  more  the  faint  far  cry  came 
floating,  *  Bohadin  son  of  Falmy  of  Balsora,  come 
and  hearken ' ;  and  another  white-robed  youth 
followed  Cogia. 

*  My  sons,'  said  the  Old  Man,  *  the  word  is 
upon  you.  Go  to  the  West  for  forty  days.  In 
the  country  of  the  Franks,  in  the  south  parts 
thereof,  but  north  of  the  great  mountains,  you 
shall  find  the  Melek  Richard,  admirable  man, 
whom  Allah  longs  for.  Strike,  my  sons,  but 
from  afar  (for  not  otherwise  shall  ye  dare  him), 
and  gain  the  gates  of  Paradise  and  the  soft- 
bosomed  women  of  your  dreams.  Go  quickly, 
prepare  yourselves.'  The  two  young  men  crawled 
to  kiss  his  foot ;  then  they  went  out,  and  silence 
folded  the  hall  of  audience  once  more  like  a 
wrapping. 

Later  in  the  day  a  slave-girl  told  Jehane  that 
her  master  was  waiting  for  her.  The  baby  was 
asleep  in  the  cradle  under  a  muslin  veil ;  she 
kissed  Fulke,  a  fine  tall  boy,  six  and  a  half  years 
old,  and  followed  the  messenger. 

The  Old  Man  embraced  her  very  affectionately, 


382  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  K 

kissed  her  forehead  and  raised  her  from  her 
knees.  '  Come  and  sit  with  me,  beautiful  and 
pious  wife,  mother  of  my  sons,'  said  he.  *  I  have 
many  things  to  say  to  you.' 

When  they  were  close  together  on  the  cushions 
of  the  window,  Sinan  put  his  arm  round  her  waist, 
and  said,  '  For  a  good  and  happy  marriage,  my 
Gulzareen,  it  is  well  that  the  woman  should  not 
love  her  husband  too  much,  but  rather  be  meek, 
show  obedience  to  his  desires,  and  alacrity,  and 
give  courtesy.  The  man  must  love  her,  and 
honour  that  in  her  which  makes  her  worth,  her 
beauty,  to  wit,  the  bounty  of  her  fruitfulness,  and 
her  discretion.  But  for  her  it  is  enough  that  she 
suffer  herself  to  be  loved,  and  give  him  her  duty 
in  return.  The  love  that  seeds  in  her  she  shall 
bestow  upon  her  children.  That  is  how  peace  of 
mind  grows  in  the  world,  and  happiness,  for  with- 
out the  first  there  can  never  be  the  second.  You, 
my  child,  have  a  peaceful  mind  :  is  it  not  so  ? ' 

'  My  lord,'  Jehane  replied,  with  no  sign  of  the 
old  discontent  upon  her  red  mouth,  '  I  am  at 
peace.  For  I  have  your  affection;  you  tell  me 
that  I  deserve  it.  And  I  give  my  children 
love.' 

*  And  you  are  happy,  Jehane  ? ' 

She  sighed,  ever  so  lightly.  *  I  should  be 
happy,  my  lord.  But  sometimes,  even  now,  I 
think  of  King  Richard,  and  pray  for  him.' 

'  I  believe  that  you  do,'  said  the  Old  Man. 
*  And  because  I  desire  your  happiness  in  all  things, 
I  desire  you  to  see  him  again.' 

A  bright  blush  flooded  Jehane,  whose  breath 
also  became  a  trouble.    By  a  quick  movement  she 


CH.  XV  (ECONOMIC   REFLECTIONS  383 

drew  her  veil  about  her,  lest  he  should  see  her 
unquiet  breast  So  the  mother  of  Proserpine 
might  have  been  startled  into  new  maidenhood 
when,  in  her  wanderings,  some  herd  had  claimed 
her  in  love.  Her  husband  watched  her  keenly, 
not  unkindly.  Jehane's  trouble  increased;  he 
left  her  alone  to  fight  it.  So  at  last  she  did; 
then  touched  his  hand,  looking  deeply  into  his 
face.  He,  loving  her  greatly,  held  her  close. 
'  Well,  Joy  of  my  Joy  .^ ' 

*  Lord,'  she  said,  speaking  hurriedly  and  low, 
*  let  me  not  see  him,  ask  it  not  of  me.  It  is  more 
than  I  dare.  It  is  more  than  would  be  right ;  I 
ask  it  for  his  sake,  not  for  mine.  For  he  has  a 
great  heart,  the  greatest  heart  that  ever  man  had 
in  the  world ;  also  he  is  sudden  to  change,  as  I 
know  very  well ;  and  the  sight  of  me  denied  him 
might  move  him  to  a  desperate  act,  as  once  before 
it  did.'  She  lowered  her  head  lest  he  should  see 
all  she  had  to  show.  He  smiled  gravely,  stroking 
her  hand  and  playing  with  it,  up  and  down. 

*  No,  child,  no,'  he  said,  *  it  will  do  you  no  harm 
now.  The  harm,  I  take  it,  has  been  done :  soon 
it  will  be  ended.  You  shall  hear  from  his  own 
lips  that  he  will  not  hurt  you.' 

Jehane  looked  at  him  in  wonder,  startled  out  of 
confusion  of  face. 

'  Do  you  know  more  of  him  than  I  do,  sire  ?  * 
she  asked,  with  a  quick  heart. 

'I  believe  that  I  do,'  replied  the  Old  Man; 
'  and  take  my  word  for  it,  dear  child,  that  I  wish 
him  no  ill.  I  wish  him,'  he  continued  very 
deliberately,  'less  ill  than  he  has  sought  to  do 
himself.     I  wish  him  most  heartily  well.      And 


384  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  11 

you,  my  girl,  whom  I  have  grown  wisely  and 
tenderly  to  love ;  you,  my  Golden  Rose,  Moon  of 
the  Caliph,  my  stem,  my  vine,  my  holy  vase,  my 
garden  of  endless  delight — for  you  I  wish,  above 
all  things,  rest  after  labour,  refreshment  and  peace. 
Well,  I  believe  that  I  shall  gain  them  for  you. 
Go,  therefore,  since  I  bid  you,  and  take  with  you 
your  son  Fulke,  that  his  father  may  see  and  bless 
him,  and  (if  he  think  fit)  provide  for  him  after  the 
custom  of  his  own  country.  And  when  you  have 
learned,  as  learn  you  will,  from  his  mouth  what  I 
am  sure  he  will  tell  you,  come  back  to  me,  my 
Pleasant  Joy,  and  rest  upon  my  heart.' 

Jehane  sighed,  and  wrought  with  her  fingers  in 
her  lap.     '  If  it  must  be,  sire ' 

'  Why,  of  course  it  must  be,'  said  the  Old  Man 
briskly. 

He  sent  her  away  to  the  harem  with  a  kiss  on 
her  mouth,  and  had  in  Cogia,  and  Bohadin  son  of 
Falmy  of  Balsora.  To  these  two  rapt  Assassins 
he  gave  careful  instructions,  which  there  was  no 
mistaking.  The  Golden  Rose,  properly  attended, 
would  accompany  them  as  far  as  Marseilles.  She 
would  journey  on  to  Pampluna  and  abide  in  the 
court  of  the  King  of  Navarre  (who  loved  Arabians, 
as  his  father  before  him)  until  such  time  as  word 
was  brought  her  by  one  of  them,  the  survivor, 
that  they  had  found  King  Richard,  and  that  he 
would  see  her.  Then  she  would  set  out,  attended 
by  the  Vizier,  the  chief  of  the  eunuchs,  and  the 
Mother  of  Flowers,  and  act  as  she  saw  proper. 

Very  soon  after  this  the  galley  left  the  marble 
quay  of  Tortosa  upon  a  prosperous  voyage  through 
blue  water.    Jehane,  her  son  Fulke  of  Anjou,  and 


CH.xv  (ECONOMIC  REFLECTIONS  S^S 

the  other  persons  named,  were  in  a  great  green 
pavilion  on  the  poop.  But  she  saw  nothing,  and 
knew  nothing,  of  Cogia  ibn  Hassan  ibn  Alnouk 
or  of  Bohadin  son  of  Falmy  of  Balsora. 


3C 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE  CHAPTER  CALLED  CHALUZ 

When  King  Richard  said,  without  any  con- 
firmatory oath,  that  he  should  hang  Adhemar  of 
Limoges  and  the  Count  of  Saint-Pol,  all  who  heard 
him  believed  it.  The  Abbot  Milo  believed  it  for 
one.  Figuratively,  you  can  see  his  hands  up  as 
you  read  him.  '  To  hang  two  knights  of  such 
eminent  degree  and  parts,'  he  writes, '  were  surely 
a  great  scandal  in  any  Christian  king.  Not  that 
the  punishment  were  undeserved  or  the  executioner 
insufficient,  God  knoweth !  But  very  often  true 
policy  points  out  the  wisdom  of  the  mean ;  and 
this  is  its  deliberative,  that  to  hang  a  bad  man 
when  another  vengeance  is  open — such  as  burning 
in  his  castle,  killing  on  his  walls,  or  stabbing  by 
apparent  mistake  for  a  common  person  —  to  hang 
him,  I  say,  suggests  to  the  yet  unhanged  a  way  of 
treating  his  betters.  There  are  more  ways  of  kill- 
ing a  dog  than  choking  him  with  butter ;  and  so 
it  is  with  lords  and  other  rebels  against  kings.  In 
this  particular  case  King  Richard  only  thought  to 
follow  his  great  father  (whom  at  this  time  he  much 
resembled):  what  in  the  end  he  did  was  very 
different  from  any  act  of  that  monarch's  that  I 
ever  heard  tell  of,  to  remember  which  makes 
me  weep  tears  of  blood.  But  so  he  fully  pur- 
posed at  that  time,  being  in  his  hottest  temper  of 
Yea/ 

386 


CH.  XVI  CHALUZ  387 

He  said  Yea  to  the  hanging  of  Saint-Pol  and 
Limoges,  and  made  ready  a  host  which  must  in- 
falKbly  crush  Chaluz  were  it  twenty  times  pre- 
pared. But  he  said  Nay  to  the  sacrifice  of 
Jehane  on  Lebanon,  and  to  that  end  increased 
his  arms  to  overawe  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  South 
which  had  sanctioned  it.  Vanguard,  battle  and 
rear,  he  mustered  fifteen  thousand  men.  Des 
Barres  led  the  van,  English  bowmen,  Norman 
knights.  Battle  was  his,  all  arms  from  Anjou, 
Poictou,  and  Touraine.  Rearguard  the  Earl  of 
Leicester  took,  his  viceroy  in  Aquitaine.  When 
the  garrison  of  Chaluz  saw  the  forested  spears  on 
the  northern  heights,  the  great  engines  piled 
against  the  sky-line,  the  train  of  followers,  pen- 
nons of  the  knights.  Dragon  of  England,  Leopards 
of  Anjou,  the  single  Lion  of  Normandy,  the  wise 
among  them  were  for  instant  surrender. 

*  Here  is  an  empery  come  out  against  us  I  * 
cried  Adhemar.  '  If  I  was  not  right  when  I  told 
you  that  I  knew  King  Richard.' 

*  The  filched  empery  of  a  thief,'  said  Saint-Pol. 
*  Honesty  is  ours.  I  fight  for  my  lady  Berengere, 
the  glory  of  two  realms,  my  sovereign  mistress 
till  I  die.' 

*  Vastly  well,'  returned  the  other;  *but  I  do 
not  fight  for  this  lady,  but  for  a  gold  table  with 
gold  dolls  sitting  at  it.'  Such  also  was  the  re- 
flection of  Achard,  castellan  of  Chaluz,  looking 
ruefully  at  his  crazy  walls. 

Two  grassy  hills  rise,  like  breasts,  out  of  a 
rolling  plain  of  grass.  Each  is  crowned  wdth 
a  tower;  between  them  are  the  church  and  vil- 


3-88  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

lage  of  Chaluz,  which  form  a  straggling  street. 
Wall  and  ditch  pen  in  these  buildings  and  tie 
tower  to  tower :  as  Richard  saw,  it  was  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  cut  the  line  in 
the  middle,  isolate,  then  reduce  the  towers  at 
leisure.  Adhemar  saw  that  too,  and  got  no 
comfort  from  it,  until  it  occurred  to  him  that 
if  he  occupied  one  tower  and  left  the  other  to 
Saint-Pol,  he  would  be  free  to  act  at  his  own 
discretion,  that  is,  not  act  at  all  against  the 
massed  power  of  England  and  Anjou.  Saint- 
Pol,  you  see,  fought  for  the  life  of  Richard, 
and  Adhemar  for  a  gold  table,  which  makes 
a  great  difference.  He  effected  this  separation 
of  garrisons;  however,  some  show  of  resistance 
was  made  by  manning  the  walls  and  daring  the 
day  with  banners. 

King  Richard  went  softly  to  work,  as  he  al- 
ways did  when  actually  hand  in  hand  with  war. 
Warfare  was  an  art  to  him,  neither  a  sport  nor 
a  counter-irritant;  he  was  never  impetuous  over 
it.  For  a  week  he  satisfied  himself  with  a  close 
investiture  of  the  town  on  ail  sides.  No  sup- 
plies could  get  in  nor  fugitives  out.  Then,  when 
everything  was  according  to  his  liking,  he  ad- 
vanced his  engines,  brought  forward  his  towers, 
set  sappers  to  work,  and  delivered  assault  in 
due  form  and  at  the  weakest  point.  He  suc- 
ceeded exquisitely.  There  was  no  real  defence. 
The  two  hill-towers  were  stranded,  Chaluz  was 
his. 

He  put  the  garrison  to  the  sword,  and  set  the 
village  on  fire.  At  once  Viscount  Adhemar  and 
his  men  surrendered.     Richard   took   the  treas- 


CH.  XVI  CHALUZ  389 

ure  —  it  was  found  that  the  golden  Caesar  had 
no  head  —  and  kept  his  word  with  the  finders, 
hanging  the  Viscount  and  castellan  on  one 
gibbet  within  sight  of  the  other  tower.  *  Oh, 
frozen  villain,'  swore  Saint-Pol  between  his  teeth, 
*so  shalt  thou  never  hang  me.'  But  when  he 
looked  about  him  at  his  dozen  of  thin-faced 
men  he  believed  that  if  Richard  was  not  to 
hang  him  it  might  be  necessary  for  him  to 
hang  himself.  More,  it  cair  e  mto  his  mind  that 
there  was  a  hand  or  two  u  ider  him  which  might 
be  anxious  to  save  him  the  trouble.  Being,  how- 
ever, a  man  of  abundant  spirit,  he  laughed  at 
the  summons  to  surrender  so  long  as  there  was 
a  horse  to  eat,  man  to  shoot,  or  arrow  for  the 
shooting.  As  for  fire,  he  believed  himself  im- 
pregnable by  that  arm;  and  any  day  succour 
might  come  from  the  South.  Surely  his  Queen 
would  not  throw  him  to  the  dogs !  Where  was 
Count  John  if  not  hastening  to  win  a  realm; 
where  King  Philip  if  not  hopeful  to  chastise  a 
vassal  .f*  Daily  King  Richard,  in  no  hurry,  but 
desperately  reckless,  rode  close  to  the  tower  and 
met  the  hardy  eyes  of  Saint-Pol  watching  him 
from  the  top.  Richard  was  a  galliard  fighter, 
as  he  had  always  been. 

'  Come  down,  Saint-Pol,*  he  would  say,  *  and 
dance  with  Limoges.' 

'  When  I  come  down,  sire,'  the  answer  would 
be,  '  there  will  be  no  dancing  in  your  host' 

Richard  took  his  time,  and  also  intolerable 
liberties  with  his  life.  Milo  lost  his  hair  with 
anxiety,  not  daring  to  speak;  Gaston  of  Beam 
did  dare,  but  was  shaken  off  by  his  mad  master. 


390  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  BK.,tt 

Des  Barres,  who  loved  him,  perhaps,  as  well  as 
any,  never  left  him  for  long  together,  and  wore 
his  brain  out  devising  shifts  which  might  keep 
him  away  from  the  walls.  But  Richard^  for 
this  present  whim  of  his,  chose  out  a  companions 
devil  as  heedless  as  himself,  Mercadet  namely, 
his  brown  Gascon  captain,  of  like  proportions, 
like  mettle,  like  foolhardiness ;  and  with  him 
made  the  daily  round,  never  omitting  an  ex- 
change of  grim  banter  with  Saint-Pol.  It  was 
terrible  to  see  him,  without  helm  on  his  head,  or 
reason  in  it,  canter  within  range  of  the  bow. 

*  Oh,  Saint-Pol,'  he  said  one  day,  'if  thou  wert 
worth  my  pains,  I  would  have  thee  down  and 
serve  thee  as  I  did  thy  brother  Eudo.  But  no; 
thou  must  be  hanged,  it  seems.'  And  Saint-Pol, 
grinning  cheerfully,  answered,.  *  Have  no  fear, 
King,  thou  wilt  never  hang  me.' 

'  By  my  soul,'  said  Richard  back  again,  *  a  little 
more  of  this  bold  gut  of  thine,  my  man,  and  I  let 
thee  go  free.' 

'Sire,'  said  Saint-Pol  soberly,  'that  were  the 
worst  of  all' 

'  How  so,  boy  ?  * 

'  Because,  if  you  forgave  me,  I  should  be  re- 
quired by  my  knighthood  to  forgive  you ;  and 
that  I  will  never  do  if  I  can  help  it.  So  I  should 
live  and  be  damned.' 

'  Have  it  then  as  it  must  be,'  said  Richard 
laughing,  and  turned  his  back.  Saint- Pol  could 
have  shot  him  dead,  but  would  not.  '  Look,  De 
Gurdun,'  he  says,  'there  goes  the  King  unmailed. 
Wilt  thou  shoot  him  in  the  back,  and  so  end  all  ? ' 

'  By  God,  Eustace,'  says  Gilies,  '  that  I  will  not.' 


CH.  XVI  CHALUZ  391 

*  Why  not,  then  ? ' 

Gurdun  said,  '  Because  I  dare  not.  I  am  more 
afraid  of  him  when  he  scorns  me  thus  than  when 
his  face  is  upon  me.  Let  him  lead  an  assault 
upon  the  walls,  and  I  will  split  his  headpiece  if  I 
may ;  but  I  will  never  again  try  him  unarmed.' 

*Pouf!'  said  Saint-Pol;  but  he  was  of  the 
same  mind. 

Then  came  a  day  when  Des  Barres  was  out 
upon  the  neighbouring  hills  with  a  company  of 
knights,  scouting.  There  had  been  rumours  of 
hostile  movement  from  the  South,  from  Provence 
and  Roussillon;  of  a  juncture  of  Prince  John, 
known  to  be  in  Gascony,  with  the  Queen's  brother 
of  Navarre.  Nothing  was  known  certainly,  but 
Richard  judged  that  John  might  be  tempted  out. 
It  was  a  bright  cold  day,  cloudless,  with  a  most 
bitter  north-east  wind  singing  in  the  bents.  Des 
Barres,  sitting  his  horse  on  the  hill,  blew  upon  his 
ungauntleted  hand,  then  flacked  it  against  his  side 
to  drive  the  blood  back.  Surveying  the  field  with 
a  hunter's  eye,  he  saw  King  Richard  ride  out  of 
the  lines  on  his  chestnut  horse,  Mercadet  with  him, 
and  (in  a  green  cloak)  Gaston  of  Beam.  Richard 
had  a  red  surcoat  and  a  blown  red  plume  in 
his  cap.  He  carried  no  shield,  and  by  the  ease 
with  which  he  turned  his  body  to  look  behind 
him,  one  hand  on  the  crupper,  Des  Barres  was 
sure  that  he  was  not  in  mail. 

'  Folly  of  a  fool ! '  he  snorted  to  his  neighbour, 
Savaric  de  Dreux:  'there  pricks  our  lord  the 
King,  as  if  to  a  party  of  hawks.' 

*  Wait,'  said  Savaric.     *  Where  away  now  ?  * 


392  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

'  To  bandy  gibes  with  Saint-Pol,  pardieu. 
Where  else  should  he  go  at  this  hour  ? ' 

'  Saint- Pol  will  never  do  him  a  villainy,'  said 
Savaric. 

'  No,  na     But  De  Gurdun  is  there/ 

'  Wait  now,'  says  Savaric  again.  '  Look,  look ! 
Who  comes  out  of  the  smoke  ? ' 

They  could  see  the  beleaguered  tower  perfectly, 
brown  and  warm-looking  in  the  sun;  below  it, 
still  smoking,  the  village  of  Chaluz,  a  heap  of 
charred  brickwork.  They  saw  a  man  in  clean 
white  come  creeping  out  of  the  smoke,  stooping 
at  a  run.  He  hid  wherever  he  could  behind  the 
broken  wall,  but  always  ran  nearer,  stooped  and 
ran  with  bent  body  over  his  bent  knees.  He 
worked  his  way  thus,  gradually  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  tower;  and  Des  Barres  watched  him 
anxiously. 

'  Some  camp-thief  making  off ' 

'  Look,  look ! '  cried  Savaric.  The  white  man 
had  come  out  by  the  tower,  was  now  kneeling 
in  the  open ;  at  the  same  moment  a  man  slipped 
down  a  rope  from  the  tower-top.  Before  he  had 
touched  earth  they  saw  the  kneeling  man  pull  a 
bowstring  to  his  ear  and  let  fly.  Next  the  fellow 
on  the  rope,  touching  ground,  ran  fleetly  forward 
and,  springing  on  the  white-robed  man,  drove  him 
to  the  earth.     They  saw  the  flash  of  a  blade. 

'  That  is  strange  warfare,'  said  Des  Barres, 
greatly  interested. 

'  There  is  warfare  in  heaven  also,'  said  Savaric. 
'  See  those  two  eagles.'  Two  great  birds  were 
battling  in  the  cold  blue.  Feathers  fell  idly,  like 
black  snow-flakes;  then  one  of  the  eagles  heeled 
over,  and  down  he  came. 


CH.  XVI  CHALUZ  393 

But  when  they  looked  towards  the  tower  again 
they  saw  a  great  commotion.  Men  running, 
horses  huddled  together,  one  in  red  held  up  by 
one  in  green.  Then  a  riderless  chestnut  horse 
looked  about  him  and  neighed.  Des  Barres  gave 
a  short  cry.  '  O  God !  They  have  shot  King 
Richard  between  them.  Come,  Savaric,  we  must 
go  down.' 

'  Stop  again,'  said  that  other.  '  Let  us  sweep 
up  those  assassins  as  we  go.  There  I  see  another 
thief  in  white.'  Des  Barres  saw  him  too.  '  Spur, 
spur ! '  he  called  to  his  knights ;  '  follow  me.' 
He  got  his  line  in  motion,  they  all  galloped  across 
the  sunny  slopes  like  a  light  cloud.  But  as  they 
drove  forward  the  play  was  in  progress ;  they  saw 
it  done,  as  it  were,  in  a  scene.  One  white  figure 
lay  heaped  upon  the  ground,  another  was  running 
by  the  wall  towards  him,  furtively  and  bent,  as 
the  first  had  come.  The  third  actor,  he  of  the 
tower,  had  not  heard  the  runner,  but  was  still 
stooped  over  the  man  he  had  evidently  killed, 
groping  probably  for  marks  or  papers  upon  him. 

'  Spur,  spur ! '  cried  Des  Barres,  and  the  line 
went  rattling  down.  They  were  not  in  time. 
The  white  runner  was  too  quick  for  the  killer  of 
his  mate :  he  did,  indeed,  look  round ;  but  the 
other  was  upon  him  before  he  could  rise.  There 
was  a  short  tussle ;  the  two  rolled  over  and  over. 
Then  the  white-clad  man  got  up,  raised  his  fallen 
comrade,  shouldered  him,  and  sped  away  into  the 
smoke  of  Chaluz.  ^hen  Des  Barres  and  his 
friends  were  within  bowshot  of  the  tower  one 
man  only  was  below  it;  and  he  lay  where  he 
had  been  stabbed.     The  white-robed  murderers, 


394  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

the  living  and  the  dead,  were  lost  in  smoke. 
The  King  and  his  party  were  gone.  Out  of  the 
tower  came  Saint-Pol  with  his  men,  unarmed, 
bareheaded,  and  v/aited  silently  in  rank  for  Des 
Barres. 

This  one  came  up  at  a  gallop.  '  My  prisoner. 
Count  of  Saint-Pol,'  he  called  out  as  he  came; 
then  halted  his  line  by  throwing  up  his  hand. 

'  The  King  has  been  shot,  Sir  Guilhem,'  Saint- 
Pol  said  gravely ;  '  not  by  me.  I  am  the  King's 
prisoner.  Take  me  to  him,  lest  he  die  before  I 
see  his  eyes.' 

'Who  is  that  dead  man  of  yours  over  there.?' 
asked  Des  Barres. 

'  His  name  is  Sieur  Gilles  de  Gurdun,  a  knight 
of  Normandy  and  enemy  of  the  King's,  but  dead 
(if  dead  he  be)  on  the  King's  account.  He  killed 
the  assassin.' 

*  I  know  that  very  well,'  says  Des  Barres,  'for 
I  saw  the  deed,  which  was  a  good  one.  I  must 
hunt  for  those  white-gowns.  Who  might  they 
be .? ' 

'  I  know  nothing  of  them.  They  are  no  men 
of  mine.  Their  robes  were  all  white,  their  faces 
all  dark,  and  they  ran  like  Turks.  But  what  can 
Turks  do  here  ? ' 

'  They  must  be  found,'  said  Des  Barres,  and 
sent  out  Savaric"  w^ith  half  of   his  men. 

They  picked  up  Gilles,  quite  dead  of  two 
wounds,  one  in  the  back  of  the  neck,  another 
below  the  heart.  Des  Barres  put  him  over  his 
saddlebow ;  then  took  his  prisoners  into  camp. 

King  Richard  had  been  carried  to  his  pavilion 
and  put  to  bed.     His  physicians  were  with  him, 


CH.  XVI  CHALUZ  395 

and  the  Abbot  Milo,  quite  unmanned.  Gaston 
of  Beam  was  crying  like  a  girl  at  the  door.  The 
Earl  of  Leicester  had  ridden  off  for  the  Queen, 
Yvo  Tibetot  for  the  Count  of  Mortain.  Des 
Barres  learned  that  they  had  pulled  out  the 
arrow,  a  common  one  of  Genoese  make,  but 
feared  poison.  King  Richard  had  been  shot  in 
the  right  lung. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  KEENING 

In  the  wan  hours  left  to  him  came  three  women, 
one  after  another,  and  spoke  the  truth  so  far  as 
they  knew  it  each. 

The  first  was  Alois  of  France  in  the  habit  of  a 
grey  lady  of  Fontevrault,  w^ith  a  face  more  dead 
than  her  cowl,  and  hair  like  wet  weed,  but  in  her 
hollow  eyes  the  fire  of  her  mystery ;  who  said  to 
the  watchers  by  the  door :  '  Let  me  in.  I  am  the 
voice  of  old  sorrow.'  So  they  held  back  the 
curtains  of  the  tent,  and  she  came  shuffling  for- 
ward to  the  long  body  on  the  bed.  At  the  sound 
of  her  skirts  the  King  turned  his  altered  face  her 
way,  then  rolled  his  head  back  to  the  dark. 

*  Take  her  away,'  he  said  in  a  whisper ;  so  Des 
Barres  stood  up  between  him  and  the  woman. 

But  Alois  put  her  hands  out,  as  a  blind  man 
does. 

*  Soul's  health,  Des  Barres ;  I  purge  old  sins. 
Avoid,  all  of  you,'  she  said,  *and  leave  me  with 
him.  Save  only  his  confessor.  What  I  have  to 
say  must  be  said  in  secret,  as  it  was  done  se- 
cretly.' 

Richard  sighed.  *  Let  her  stay ;  and  let  Milo 
stay,'  he  said.  The  rest  went  out  on  tip-toe. 
Alois  came  and  knelt  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 

*  Listen  now,  Richard,'  said  she ;  *  for  thy  last 
hour  is  near,  and  mine  also.     Twice  over  I  have 

396 


CH.  XVII  THE   KEENING  397 

sought  to  tell  thee,  but  was  denied.  Each  time 
I  might  have  done  thee  a  service ;  now  I  will  do 
thee  good  service.  Thou  art  not  guilty  of  thy 
father's  death,  nor  he  of  my  despair.' 

The  King  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  looked  up 
sideways,  so  that  she  saw  his  eye  shining.  His 
lips  moved,  then  stuck  together;  so  Milo  put  a 
sponge  with  wine  upon  them.  Then  he  whis- 
pered, *  Tell  me,  Alois,  who  was  guilty  with 
thee.?' 

She  said,  '  Thy  brother  John  of  Mortain  was 
that  man.     A  villain  is  he.' 

A  moaning  sigh  escaped  the  King,  long-drawn, 
shuddering,  very  piteous.  *  Eh,  Alois,  Alois ! 
Which  of  us  four  was  not  a  villain  ? ' 

Said  Alois,  '  What  is  past  is  past,  and  I  have 
told  thee.  What  is  to  come  I  cannot  tell  thee, 
for  the  past  swallows  me  up.  Yet  I  say  again, 
thy  brother  John  is  a  sick  villain,  a  secret  villain, 
and  a  thief.' 

'  God  help  him,  God  judge  him,'  said  Richard 
with  another  sigh.  '  I  can  do  neither,  nor  will 
not.'  He  moaned  again,  but  so  hopelessly,  as 
being  so  weary  and  fordone,  that  Abbot  Milo 
began  to  blubber  out  loud.  Alois  lifted  up  her 
drawn  face,  and  struck  her  breast. 

*  Ah,  would  to  God,  Richard,'  she  cried,  '  would 
to  God  I  had  come  to  thee  clean!  I  had  saved 
thee  then  from  this  most  bitter  death.  For  if  I 
love  thee  now,  judge  how  I  had  loved  thee  then.' 

He  said,  with  shut  eyes,  '  None  could  love  me 
long,  since  none  could  trust  me,  and  not  I  my- 
self.' Then  he  said  fretfully  to  the  abbot,  '  Take 
her  away,  Milo ;  I  am  tired.' 


398  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  ii 

Alois,  kneeling,  kissed  his  dry  forehead. 
*  Farewell,'  she  said,  '  King  Richard,  most  a  king 
when  most  in  bonds,  and  most  merciful  when 
most  in  need  of  mercy.  My  work  is  done. 
Remains  to  pray  and  prepare.'  She  went  out 
noiselessly,  as  she  had  come  in,  and  no  man  of 
them  saw  her  again. 

Next  came  Queen  Berengere,  about  the  time 
of  sunset.  She  came  stiffly,  as  if  holding  herself 
in  a  trap,  with  much  formal  bowing  to  Death; 
quite  white,  like  ivory,  in  a  black  robe ;  in  her 
hands  a  great  crucifix.  At  the  door  she  paused 
for  a  minute,  the  Earl  of  Leicester  being  with 
her. 

'  Grief  is  quick  in  me,  Leicester,'  she  said ; 
then  to  the  ushers  of  the  door,  *Does  he  live.f* 
Will  he  know  me  ?  Does  he  wake  ?  Does  he 
not  cry  for  me  now } ' 

'  Madame,  the  King  sleeps,'  they  told  her. 

*  I  go  to  pray  for  him,'  said  the  Queen,  and 
went  in. 

Stiffly  she  knelt  at  his  bedhead,  and  with  both 
hands  held  up  the  crucifix  to  her  face.  She  be- 
gan to  talk  to  it  in  a  low  worn  voice,  as  though 
she  were  asking  the  Christ  to  reckon  her  misery. 

'  Thou  Christ,'  she  complained,  '  Thou  Christ, 
look  upon  me,  the  daughter  of  a  king,  crucified 
terribly  with  Thee.  This  dying  man  is  the  King 
my  husband,  who  denied  me  as  Thou,  Christ,  wert 
denied;  who  sought  to  put  me  by,  and  yet  is 
loved.  Yet  I  love  him,  Christ;  yet  I  have 
worked  for  him  against  my  honour,  holding  it 
as  cheap  as  he  did.     When  he  was  in  prison  I 


CH.  XVII  THE   KEENING 


399 


humbled  myself  to  set  him  loose;  when  he  was 
loosed  I  held  his  enemies  back,  while  he,  cruelly, 
held  me  back.  I  have  prayed  for  him,  and  pray 
now,  while  he  lies  there,  struck  secretly,  and  dies 
not  knowing  me;  and  leaves  me  alone,  careless 
whether  I  live  or  die.  Ah,  Saviour  of  the  world, 
do  I  suffer  or  not  ? ' 

She  awoke  the  sick  man,  who  opened  his  eyes 
and  stared  about  him.  He  signed  to  Milo  to  draw 
nigh,  which  the  snuffling  old  man  did. 

'  Who  is  here  ? '  he  whispered.     *  Not ? ' 

*  No,  no,  dearest  lord,'  said  Milo  quickly. 
*  But  the  Queen  is  here.' 

*  Ah,'  said  he,  '  poor  wretch  !  *  And  he  sighed. 
Then  he  said,  '  Turn  me  over,  Milo.'  It  was 
done,  with  a  flux  of  blood  to  tlie  mouth.  They 
stayed  that  and  brought  him  round  with  aqua 
vitse. 

The  Queen  was  terribly  moved  to  see  his 
ravaged  face.  No  doubt  she  loved  him.  But 
she  had  nothing  to  say.  For  some  time  their 
eyes  were  fixed,  each  on  the  other;  the  Queen's 
misty,  the  King's  fever-bright,  terribly  searching, 
terribly  intelligent.     He  read  her  soul. 

'  Madame,'  he  said,  but  she  could  scarcely  hear 
him,  '  I  have  done  you  great  wrong,  yet  greater 
wrong  elsewhere.  I  cannot  die  in  comfort  with- 
out your  pardon ;  but  I  cannot  ask  it  of  you,  for 
if  I  still  had  years  to  live,  I  should  do  as  I  have 
done.'     A  sob  of  injury  shook  the  Queen. 

'  Richard  !  Richard  !  Richard  ! '  she  wailed,  '  I 
suffer!  You  have  my  heart;  you  have  always 
had  it.  And  what  have  I  ?  Nothing,  O  God ! 
Nothing  at  all' 


400  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

*  Madame,'  said  he,  '  the  wrong  I  did  you  was 
that  I  gave  you  the  right  to  anything.  That  was 
the  first  and  greatest  wrong.  To  give  it  you 
I  thieved,  and  in  taking  it  again  I  thieved  again. 

God  knoweth '     He  shut  his  eyes,  and  kept 

them  shut.  She  called  to  him  more  urgently, 
'  Richard,  Richard ! '  but  he  made  no  answer,  and 
appeared  to  sleep.  The  Queen  shivered  and 
sniffed,  turned  to  her  Christ,  and  so  spent  the 
night. 

The  last  to  come  was  Jehane  in  a  white  gown ; 
and  she  came  with  the  dawn.  Eager  and  flushed 
she  was,  with  dawn-colour  in  her  face ;  and 
stepped  lightly  over  the  dewy  grass,  her  lips 
parted  and  hair  blown  back.  She  came  in  exalted 
with  grief,  so  that  no  wardens  of  the  door,  nor 
queens,  nor  college  of  queens,  could  have  stayed 
her.  She  was  as  tall  as  any  there,  and  went  past 
the  guard  at  the  door  without  question  or  word 
said,  and  so  lightly  and  fiercely  to  the  bed.  There 
she  stood,  dilating  and  glowing,  looking  not  back 
on  her  spent  life,  but  on  to  the  glory  of  the  dying. 

The  Queen  knew  that  she  was  there,  but  went 
on  with  her  prayers,  or  seemed  to  go  on.  Jehane 
knelt  suddenly,  put  her  arms  out  over  Richard, 
stooped  and  kissed  his  cheek.  Then  she  looked 
up,  desperately  triumphing,  for  any  one  to  ques- 
tion her  right.  None  did.  Berengere  prayed 
incessantly,  and  Jehane  panted.  The  words  broke 
from  her  at  last.  *  Dost  thou  question  my  right, 
Berengere,'  she  said  fiercely,  *to  kiss  a  dead  man, 
to  love  the  dead  and  speak  greatly  of  the  dead  ? 
Which  of  us  three  women,  thinkest  thou,  knoweth 


J 


r 


) 
CH.  XVII  THE   KEENING  401 

best  what  report  to  make  concerning  this  beloved, 
thou,  or  Alois,  or  I  ?  Alois  came,  speaking  of  old 
sins ;  and  you  are  here,  plaining  of  new  sins : 
what  shall  I  do,  now  I  am  here  ?  Am  I  to  speak 
of  sin  to  come?  Thou  dear  knight,'  and  she 
touched  his  head,  '  there  is  no  more  room  for 
thy  great  sins,  alas  !  But  I  think  thou  shalt  leave 
behind  thee  some  spark  of  a  fire.'  She  looked 
again  at  Berengere,  who  saw  the  glint  of  her 
green  eyes  and  the  old  proud  discontent  twisting 
her  lip,  but  did  nothing.  '  Look,  Berengere,'  said 
Jehane,  '  I  speak  as  mother  of  his  child  Fulke  of 
Anjou.  I  had  rather  my  son  Fulke  sinned  as  his 
fathers  have  sinned,  so  that  he  sinned  greatly  like 
them,  than  that  he  should  grow  pale,  scheming 
safety  in  a  cloister,  and  make  the  Man  in  our 
Saviour  ashamed  of  His  choice.  I  had  rather  the 
bad  blood  stay,  so  it  stay  great  blood,  than  that  it 
should  be  thin  like  thine.  What  is  there  to  fear, 
girl }  A  sword  ?  I  have  had  a  sword  in  my 
heart  eight  years,  and  made  no  sound.  Let  the 
son  pierce  what  the  father  pierced  before.  I  am 
a  lover,  saying  not  to  my  beloved,  "  Stroke  m.y 
heart,  dearest  lord  " ;  but  instead,  "  Stab  if  thou 
wilt,  my  King,  and  let  me  bleed  for  thee."  So  I 
have  bled,  sweet  Lord  Jesus,  and  so  shall  bleed 
again  ! '  She  stooped  and  kissed  his  head,  saying, 
'  Amen.  Let  the  poor  bleed  if  the  King  ask.' 
The  Queen  went  on  praying ;  but  Richard  opened 
his  eyes  without  start  or  quiver,  looked  at  Jehane 
leaning  over  him,  and  smiled. 

*  Well,  my  girl,  well,'  he  said,  '  thou  art  in  good 
time.     What  of  the  lad  ? ' 

*  He  is  here,  Richard.* 

2D 


402  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  wcu 

*  Bring  him  to  me,'  says  the  King.  So  Des 
Barres  stole  out  to  the  Moslems  at  the  door,  and 
came  back  leading  Fulke  by  the  hand,  a  slim,  tall 
boy,  fair-haired,  and  frank  in  the  face,  with  his 
father  s  delicate  mouth  and  bold  grey  eyes.  J  ehane 
turned  to  take  him. 

*  This  is  thy  father,  boy/ 

*  I  know  it,  ma'am,'  says  young  Fulke,  and  knelt 
down  by  the  bed.  King  Richard  put  his  hand 
on  his  head. 

*^  What  a  rough  pelt,  Fulke,'  he  says,  Mike  thy 
father's.  God  send  thee  a  better  inside  to  it,  my 
boy.     God  make  a  man  of  thee.' 

'  He  will  never  make  me  a  great  king,  sire,' 
says  Fulke. 

^  He  can  make  thee  better  than  that,'  said  his 
father. 

'  I  think  noC  answered  Fulke.  '  You  are  the 
greatest  king  in  the  whole  world,  sire.  The  Old 
Man  of  Musse  said  it' 

'  Kiss  me,  Fulke,'  said  Richard.  The  boy  put 
his  face  up  quickly  and  kissed  his  father's  lips. 
*  What  a  lover ! '  the  King  laughed ;  and  Jehane 
said,  '  He  always  kisses  on  the  lips.'  Richard 
sighed,  suddenly  tired;  Fulke  looked  about, 
frightened  at  all  the  solemnity,  and  took  his 
mother's  hand.  She  gave  him  over  to  Des 
Barres,  who  led  him  away. 

The  King  signed  to  Jehane  to  bend  down  her 
head.  So  she  did,  and  gvqxi  thus  could  barely 
hear  him. 

'  I  must  die  in  peace  if  I  can,  sweet  soul,'  he 
muttered.  They  all  saw  that  the  end  was  not  far 
off.  *  Tell  me  what  will  become  of  thee  when  I 
am  gone.'     She  stroked  his  cheek. 


^ 


CH.  xvn  THE  KEENING  449 

*  I  shall  go  back  to  my  husband  and  children, 
dear  one.     I  have  left  three  behind  me,  all  sons/ 

*  Are  they  good  to  thee  ?     Art  thou  happy?  * 

*  I  am  at  peace  with  myself,  wife  of  a  wise  old 
man ;  I  love  my  children,  and  have  the  memory 
of  thee,  Richard.     These  will  sufHce  me.' 

*^  There  is  one  more  thing  for  thee  to  give  me, 
my  Jehane.'     She  smiled  pityingly. 

*  Why,  what  is  left  to  give,  Richard  ? '  He  said 
in  her  ear, '  Our  boy  Fulke.' 

*  Ah/  said  Jehane.  The  Queen  was  now  watch- 
ing her  intently  between  her  hands. 

'Jehane,  Jehane,'  said  King  Richard,  sweating 
with  the  effort  to  be  heard,  *  all  our  life  together 
thou  hast  been  giving  and  I  spending,  thou  miser 
that  I  might  play  the  prodigal  For  the  last  time 
I  ask  of  thee :  deny  me  not  Wilt  thou  stay  here 
with  Fulke  our  son  ? ' 

Jehane  could  not  speak ;  she  shook  her  head, 
and  showed  him  her  eyes  all  blind  with  tears. 
The  tears  came  freely,  from  more  eyes  than  hers. 
Richard's  head  dropped  back,  and  for  a  full 
minute  they  thought  him  gone.  But  no.  He 
opened  his  eyes  again  and  moved  his  lips.  They 
strained  to  hear  him.  *  The  sponge,  the  sponge,' 
he  said :  then,  '  Bring  me  in  Saint- Pol.'  The 
cold  light  began  to  steal  in  through  the  crannies 
of  the  tent. 

The  young  man  was  brought  in  by  Des  Barres, 
in  chains.  Jehane,  now  behind  Richard's  head, 
lifted  him  up  in  her  arms. 

*  Knock  off  those  fetters,'  says  the  King.  Saint 
Pol  was  free. 

'Eustace,'   says    Richard,    *you   and    I    have 


404  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

bandied  hard  words  enough,  and  blows  enough. 
My  chains  will  be  off  before  sunrise,  and  yours 
are  off  already.     Answer  me,  is  Gurdun  dead  ? ' 

Saint-Pol  dropped  to  his  knees.  '  Oh,  my  lord, 
he  died  where  he  fell.  But  as  God  knows,  he  had 
no  hand  in  this,  nor  had  I.* 

*  If  I  know  it,  I  suppose  God  knows  it  too,' 
said  Richard,  smiling  rather  thinly.  *  Now, 
Eustace,  I  have  a  word  to  say.  I  have  done 
much  against  your  name ;  to  your  brother  be- 
cause he  spoke  against  a  great  lady  and  ill  of 
my  house ;  to  your  sister  here,  because  I  loved 
her  not  well  enough  and  myself  too  well.  Eustace, 
you  shall  kiss  her  before  I  go.' 

Saint-Pol  got  up  and  went  to  her.  Brother 
and  sister  kissed  each  other  above  the  King's 
head.  Then  said  Richard,  '  Now  I  will  tell  you 
that  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  death  of  your 
cousin  Montferrat' 

'  Oh,  sire  !  oh,  sire  ! '  cried  Saint-Pol ;  but 
Jehane  looked  at  her  brother. 

'  I  had  to  do  with  that,  Eustace,'  she  said.  *  He 
laid  the  death  of  the  King,  and  I  laid  his  death  at 
the  price  of  my  marriage.     He  deserved  it' 

'Sister,'  said  Saint-Pol,  'he  did  deserve  it;  and 
I  deserve  what  he  had.  Oh,  sire,'  he  urged  with 
tears,  '  take  my  life,  as  your  right  is,  but  forgive 
me  first.' 

'  What  have  I  to  forgive  you,  brother  ? '  said 
Richard.  '  Come,  kiss  me.  We  were  good 
friends  in  the  old  days.'  Saint- Pol,  with  tears, 
kissed  him.     Richard  sat  up. 

'  I  require  you  now,  Saint-Pol  and  Des  Barres, 
that   between   you   you   defend   my  son    Fulke. 


CH.  XVII  THE   KEENING 


405 


Milo  has  the  deeds  of  his  lands  of  Culgny.  Bring 
him  up  a  good  knight,  and  let  him  think  gentlier 
of  his  father  than  that  father  ever  did  of  his.  Will 
you  do  this  ?     Make  haste,  make  haste  !  * 

The  Queen  broke  in  with  a  cry.  *  Oh,  sire  I  oh, 
sire  !  Is  there  nothing  for  me  ?  Madame  ! '  she 
turned  to  Jehane  and  held  her  fast  by  the  knees, 

*  have  pity,  spare  me  a  little,  a  very  little  work ! 
O  Christ!  O  Christ!'  —  she  rocked  herself  about 
—  *  Can  I  do  nothing  in  the  world  for  my  King  ? ' 

Jehane  stooped  to  take  her  up.  *  Madame, 
watch  over  my  little  Fulke,  when  his  father  is 
gone,  and  I  am  gone.*  The  Queen  was  crying 
bitterly. 

*  I  will  never  leave  him  if  you  will  trust  me,' 
she  began  to  say.      Richard  put  his  hand  out. 

*  Let  it  be  so.  My  lords,  serve  the  Queen  and 
me  in  this  matter.'  The  two  lords  bowed  their 
heads,  and  the  Queen  tumbled  to  her  sobbed 
prayers  again. 

The  King's  eyes  were  almost  gone ;  certainly 
he  could  not  see  out  of  them.  They  understood 
his  moving  lips,  *  A  sponge,  quick.' 

Jehane  brought  it  and  wiped  his  mouth;  she 
could  not  see  either  for  tears.  He  gave  a  strong 
movement,  wrenched  his  head  up  from  her  arm, 
then  gave  a  great  gasp,  '  Christ !  I  am  done  1 ' 
There  followed  on  this  a  rush  of  blood  which 
made  all  hearts  stand  still.  They  wiped  it  away. 
But  Jehane  saw  that  with  that  hot  blood  had  gone 
his  spirit.  She  lifted  high  her  head  and  let  them 
read  the  truth  from  her  eyes.  Then  she  put  her 
lips  upon  his,  and  so  stayed,  and  felt  him  grow 
cold  below  her  warmth.     The  fire  was  out. 


4o6  RICHARD   YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  i[ 

They  buried  him  at  Fontevrault  as  he  had 
directed,  at  the  feet  of  his  father.  King  John 
was  there  with  the  peers  of  England,  Normandy, 
and  Anjou.  The  Queen  was  there;  but  not 
Alois  (unless  behind  the  grille),  and  not  King 
Philip,  because  he  hated  King  John  much  worse 
than  he  ever  hated  Richard.  And  Jehane  was 
not  there,  nor  Fulke  of  Anjou  with  his  governors, 
because  they  had  another  business  to  perform. 

Not  all  of  King  Richard  was  buried  there, 
where  the  great  effigy  still  marks  the  place  of 
great  dust.  Jehane  had  his  heart  in  a  casket,  and 
with  Fulke  her  son,  Des  Barres,  her  brother 
Saint-Pol,  Gaston  of  Beam,  and  the  Abbot  Milo, 
took  it  to  the  church  of  Rouen  and  saw  it  laid 
among  the  dead  Dukes  of  Normandy;  fitting 
sepulture  for  a  heart  as  bold  as  any  of  theirs,  and 
capable  of  more  gentle  music  when  the  fine  hand 
plucked  the  chords.  After  this  Jehane  kissed 
Fulke  and  left  him  with  the  Queen,  his  uncle, 
and  Guilhem  des  Barres.  Then  she  went  back 
to  her  ship. 

In  the  white  palace  in  the  green  valley  of 
Lebanon  the  Old  Man  of  Musse  embraced  his 
wife.  *  Moon  of  my  soul,  my  Garden,  my  Treas- 
ure-house!' he  called  her,  and  kissed  her  all 
over. 

*  The  King  died  in  peace,  my  lord,'  she  said, 
*  and  I  have  peace  because  of  that.* 

*  Thy  children  shall  call  thee  blessed,  my 
beloved,  as  I  call  thee.' 

*  The  prophecy  of  the  leper  was  not  fulfilled 
sir,'  says  Jehane. 


1 


CH.xvn  THE   KEENING  407 

Ah,'  replied  the  Old  Man  of  Musse,  'all 
these  things  are  in  the  hands  of  the  Supreme 
Disposer,  Who  with  His  forefinger  points  us  the 
determined  road.' 

Then  Jehane  went  in  to  her  children,  and  other 
duties  which  her  station  required  of  her. 


EPILOGUE  OF  THE   ABBOT   MILO 

*  When  I  consider,'  writes  the  Abbot  Milo  on  his 
last  page,  *  that  I  have  Hved  to  see  the  deaths  of 
three  Kings  of  England,  wearers  of  the  broom- 
switch,  and  of  the  manner  of  those  deaths,  I  am 
led  to  admire  the  wonderful  ordering  of  Almighty 
God,  Who  accorded  to  each  of  them  an  end 
illustrative  of  his  doings  in  the  world,  and  so 
wrote,  as  it  were,  in  blood  for  our  learning.  King 
Henry  produced  strife,  King  Richard  induced 
strife,  and  King  John  deduced  it.  King  Henry 
died  cursing  and  accursed;  King  Richard  forgiving 
and  forgiven ;  King  John  blaspheming,  and  not 
held  worthy  of  reproof.  The  first  did  evil,  mean- 
ing evilly ;  the  second  evil,  meaning  well ;  the 
third  was  evil.  So  the  first  was  wretched  in  death, 
the  second  pitiful,  the  third  shameful.  The  first 
loved  a  few,  the  second  loved  one,  the  third  none. 
So  the  death  of  the  first  was  gain  to  a  few,  that  of 
the  second  to  one,  that  of  the  third  to  none ;  for 
he  that  loves  not,  neither  can  he  hate:  he  is 
negligible  in  the  end.  But  observe  now,  the 
chief  woe  of  these  kings  of  the  House  of  Anjou 
was  that  they  hurt  whom  they  loved  more  than 
whom  they  hated. 

*  King  Henry  was  a  great  prince,  who  did  evil 
to  many  both  in  his  life  and  death.  My  dear 
master,  lord,  and  friend  might  have  been  a  greater, 
had  not  his  head  gone  counter  to  his  heart,  his 

408 


BK.  II  EPILOGUE  409 

generosity  not  been  tripped  up  by  bis  pride.  So 
generous  as  he  was,  all  the  world  might  have  loved 
him,  as  one  loved  him;  and  yet  so  arrogant  of 
mind  that  the  very  largess  he  bestowed  had  a  sting 
beneath  it,  as  though  he  scorned  to  give  less  to 
creatures  that  lacked  so  much.  All  his  faults  and 
most  of  his  griefs  sprang  from  this  rending  apart 
of  his  nature.  His  heart  cried  Yea !  to  a  noble 
motion.  Then  came  his  haughty  head  to  suggest 
trickery,  and  bid  him  say  Nay!  to  the  heart's 
urgency. 

'  He  was  a  religious  man,  a  pious  man,  the 
hottest  fighter  with  the  coolest  judgment  of  any  I 
have  ever  known ;  a  great  lover  of  one  woman. 
He  might  have  been  a  happy  man  if  she  had  been 
let  have  her  way.  But  he  thwarted  her,  he  played 
with  her  whole-heart  love,  blew  hot  and  cold; 
neither  let  her  alone  nor  clove  to  her  through 
all.  So  she  had  to  pay.  And  of  him,  my 
friend  and  king  howsoever,  I  say  from  the  bot- 
tom of  my  soul,  if  his  death  did  not  benefit 
poor  Jehane,  then  it  is  a  happy  thing  for  a 
woman  to  go  bleeding  in  the  side.  But  I  know 
that  she  was  fortunate  in  his  death,  and  believe 
that  he  was  also.  For  he  had  space  for  repara- 
tion, died  with  his  lovers  about  him,  having 
been  saved  in  time  from  a  great  disgrace.  And 
it  is  a  very  wise  man  who  reports:  ////  3fors 
gravis  inctibat^  qui  notus  nimis  omnibus^  ignotus 
moritur  sibi.  But  King  Richard  knew  himself 
in  those  last  keen  hours,  and  (as  we  believe) 
won  forgiveness  of  God. 

*  God  be  good  to  him  where  he  is !  They  say 
that  when  he  died,  that  same  day  his  soul  was 


4IO  RICHARD  YEA-AND-NAY  bk.  n 

solved  from  purgatorial  fires  (by  reason,  one  may 
suppose,  of  his  glorious  captaincy  of  the  armies 
of  the  Cross),  and  he  drawn  up  to  heaven  in  a 
flamy  cloud.  I  know  nothing  certainly  of  this, 
which  was  not  revealed  to  me ;  but  my  prayer  is 
that  he  may  be  now  with  Hannibal  and  Judas 
Maccabceus  and  Charles  the  great  Emperor ;  and 
by  this  time  of  writing  (if  there  be  no  offence  in 
it)  with  Jehane  to  sit  upon  his  knee. 

*UP0N   WHOSE   TWO   SOULS,    JESU,    HAVE   MERCY  T 


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